


Bad day, horrible night

by Nevospitanniy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Isaac, Gen, Horror Elements, M/M, Magical Elements, Plot-heavy, Pre-Slash, Stiles is in a world of hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevospitanniy/pseuds/Nevospitanniy
Summary: “Why are you here?"Stiles finally looks Gerard right in the eye.“Because I'm an idiot."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Плохой день, ночь ужасна (Bad day, horrible night)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3059042) by [мобиус (mobius)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mobius/pseuds/%D0%BC%D0%BE%D0%B1%D0%B8%D1%83%D1%81). 



> This is the best oddest fic you’ve never read, and I’ve had the honor of translating it. I consider this a gem of Russian Sterek and 40 thousand other people seem to agree.  
> It’s creepy and hopeless and utterly confusing at times, everyone is an unreliable narrator and if you don’t understand anything, you’re doing great. A truly fresh take on sterek that feels intimate and private. 
> 
> Beta: @thegirlnamedcove on tumblr. The fastest beta I've ever met, shoutout to you, girl.
> 
> Notes: Stormy Waters is a pornstar. Knight of The Long Face is a Don Quixote reference. AU where Jackson and Lydia are concerned - they are regular people. Also the text exaggerates both the effect of taking Adderall/Ritalin and the withdrawal symptoms. Street names are related to Alabama despite this being California. Timing - second season.
> 
> This fic has [an amazing art courtesy of @creaturexiii](http://creaturexlll.tumblr.com/post/27274421658/another-pic-for-my-another-friends-fic-the-fic)

_“No,” mumbles Stiles. “No, no, no.”_

A bad day never fools you with a good morning; bad days begin at night. An alarm on Stiles’ phone delivers a message, as if saying _today is going to suck, look at the calendar, dad is starting to suspect you’re tracking your menstrual cycle, check the date you highlight every month._

Stiles picks this day up piece by piece and hammers them back into place.

Ten minutes of Erica, her humiliation attempts are getting progressively more creative.  Stiles had seen the video where an epileptic seizure knocked her off her feet, she writhed on the floor, eyes rolled back, a dark urine-smelling patch wetly spreading on her jeans. 

 _I won’t make use of these memories,_ thinks Stiles, _if you shut up within the next two minutes._

And she shuts up. She suspects something. She’s terrified that the past still matters. 

Boyd sits beside Stiles at lunch, boring him to death. While Scott and Allison are kissing at a staircase, Boyd hones his new skills. 

He counts his heartbeats, smells his clothes and asks about his shower gel or the wipes he used after jerking off.  Stiles answers through gritted teeth, he’s annoyed, sure, but none of this is disturbing anymore. Boyd treats him like an apparatus. 

“You smoked two Trues five hours ago?”

“Yeah.”

This dog is training itself. Boys knows more about Stiles than a mortician does about their quiet clientèle, but Boyd would never tell. These are his dirty little secrets. 

“Your dad hugged you before school.”

“Yeah.”

 _I’m a piece of equipment,_ thinks Stiles. 

“You've used Scott’s deodorant.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles smells a little bit like both today. 

You've passed, Boyd, another A, now fuck off and let me eat. Go practice on bums. 

Isaac has two inches on Stiles, that’s why they don’t talk. Except for the times when Stiles says “hands off”, “let me through”, “none of your business”, and the latest one, “this really fucking hurt, dude, if you had a car, I’d steal your tires, travel 16 years back in time and sell the rubber to your dad for condoms”.

Scott broke a chair on Isaac’s back when Stiles came to class with a split brow and a busted nose. 

If you ask Stiles, Isaac is a sad pile of shit, and the worst thing is, it’s not even his fault. This means his entire life Isaac will try and prove something to someone. To _a_ someone who has long stopped caring, and his killer doesn’t even remember what he’s done that night. 

Today Stiles needs Isaac, so when he corners Stiles in the locker room and pushes him over the bench right onto the floor, Stiles doesn’t quip back.

“Cool, man,” he mutters and winces, “now help me up.”

Isaac responds with a grin; Stiles know the type. It crawls onto the face when you get your interest even before lending the money.

He’s moaning with pain, maybe overacting a bit, but he knows what he’s doing; Isaac’s smile grows wider. Stiles is only left to wonder the reasons for this incredible and fascinating hatred Isaac has for Scott. Or Stiles. 

Isaac reaches out and yanks Stiles back on his feet. “There are no keys, the door’s broken. Use the kitchen window, cops left it unlocked. We’ll be waiting for you at 6.”

Lydia and the smell of her hair when she leans toward Stiles, a thin blue vein on the temple peeking through the foundation. 

“Is the Chemistry test today or tomorrow?”

Stiles wants to say _Whenever you want. Any time. Forever._

*

“Everything is going according to plan.” Stiles and Allison are sitting on the school lawn. 

“You had a plan?” Allison asks. 

“I always have a plan. Many, many plans.”

Allison smiles softly. One of the arrowheads broke the seam of her bag and sticks out; she doesn't try to hide it. 

“Check this out,” Stiles elbows her.

Allison looks at a text file open on his phone. 

“I’ll be talking to him about you,” Stiles hopes she didn't notice the word ‘mole’. “This will work.”

“You don’t even know what my favorite color is.”

“Black.”

“How did you guess?”

“Most of your lingerie is black.”

“He’s only seen, like, one set. Okay, two.”

Stiles gets up, dusting off his pants. 

“Gotta go.”

“Good luck.”

“I’m planning on stealing an arc welder, I’ll need it.”

“Scott can’t show up at my house tonight. He can’t give Gerard a gift like that, not today.”

Allison kisses his cheek and Stiles knows who he will deliver this kiss to.  He feels moisture on his neck, just below the nape. 

It becomes so quiet you can hear the music from someone’s headphones. Allison rubs her perfume into Stiles’ skin, shakes the bottle for some reason and gives it another spritz. 

Scott has to live with the rumors. He’s heard them all. Some of them have him doing truly terrible things to Stiles while Allison is resting on the other side of the bed. 

Phone camera shutters click. 

*

“No, dude, no,” mumbles Stiles. “No.”

Scott has chains wrapped around his wrists and neck. Isaac’s basement is stuffy, stinks of rat shit and too damp and cold to breathe. Stiles sits on top of the overturned freezer; Isaac’s raped childhood is still dripping down its walls, along with broken nails. 

“NO!” Stiles yells, because seemingly no one is listening to him. “I’ve never seen her naked!”

Scott is flailing in his chains. 

Stiles had spent an entire evening here: assembling the machine, welding a chain to a boiler, welding the boiler to a wall, bemoaning the lack of concrete solution in his possession to fortify the aforementioned wall. His head’s wrapped in Boyd’s scarf, with Isaac’s dark glasses protecting the eyes. There are drops of molten metal on the skin of his hands. You can almost smell the burning, still. 

Those watching him work haven’t said a word. No admiration. Erica just shrugged, “it’s Stiles.”

No one cares that he read the “welding for dummies” how-to on some construction firm’s website that morning. Stiles forgets when he heard praise last, his mom died what feels like a thousand years ago. 

“NEVER!” he repeats. Sweat on the forehead gathers in fat drops and trickles down his temples.

Scott roars and howls. 

Stiles carefully gets up and slowly walks toward the boiler, step by step. 

“I have something for you,” he says. 

Scott lunges forward. His fangs press into Stiles’ neck; the artery is about to capitulate. 

Stiles has a million ways this situation can unfold in his head; a future where his trachea is ground up and he doesn’t even know what happened. Scott reeks of rage, like sulfur in hell, and Stiles’ face is covered in his saliva. 

Stiles kisses Scott. He doesn’t have a choice, the jaws are still on his neck, but he manages to reach the cheek. Puts another smooch to the temple, execution style. 

“I love you,” says Stiles. “You’re strong. You’re going to pull through.”

Allison can trust Stiles to deliver any sort of message. Thanks God, he thinks, that Romeo and Juliet seem to be far from conquering EMS-blowjobs.

Scott slumps back into the wall. Chain clatter fills the basement. 

“Now people will talk for sure,” Stiles says tiredly. 

Scott smiles, baring the fangs at a different angle. _If only you heard, Stiles. People are already talking._

“I haven’t seen her naked,” repeats Stiles, returning to the freezer. 

“The mole,” rasps out Scott. 

“Never drinking with you again. Even on Hanukah. I never wanted to know that, you tell me too much.”

Stiles scrolls through the notes on his phone.

“So… legs.”

Scott flashes yellow eyes, clutching onto the boiler. Stiles mentally circumvents dangerous Allison and leg-related topics.  

“She has the awesomest legs ever, dude. They are so long. And straight. And two. You’re really lucky-” Stiles wants to say “to have Allison and her legs”, but shuts up. To say that is to swerve back onto a slippery slope of sexual metaphors, “-that she has legs.”

Scott gives a curt growl. 

“Her hair is slick like silk. And dark brown, like a marker. And long like… fish,” Stiles slaps a hand over his eyes in a gesture full of hopelessness and despair, but Scott seems to like it. 

Stiles accidentally stumbles upon an entire supermarket of innocent analogies in a desert of deadly adjectives. 

“And her skin is white like ice cream. And her temper is like mashed potatoes with chili pepper. And pancakes. And turkey salad.”

Stiles’ stomach rumbles.

“She’s proud of you,” he sighs, “right now, as we speak. Proud and eating something. They can’t be just ripping the heads off cats and stealing neighbor’s gas, they have to eat sometime. On grandpa Gerard’s birthday.”

The chain breaks so easily the thin sharp sound of links scattering across the floor almost seems unreal. 

Stiles holds his breath. At least a minute passes before he understands he’s still alive. Gerard. That’s something he really shouldn't have said out loud. 

Scott presses his fist into the freezer by Stiles’ thigh, breathing right into his face. Stiles isn't thinking about anything, he’s not even sorry he fucked up. Higher nervous activity is reduced to a minimum: don’t shit himself.  Time stops. 

And starts again when Scott hold aloft a large rat, still alive, squeezed in his palm. Catching the whiff of food talk, it was sneaking up to Stiles’ leg. 

“Don’t touch it," orders Stiles. Scott doesn't move. 

“Let the thing go, you asshole,” Stiles presses in a quiet whisper. “Allison loves animals.”

Scott goes back to the boiler, his unblinking eyes boring into Stiles. 

“If Isaac had a phone, I’d call him to ask where he keeps spare underwear,” confesses Stiles. “If the police haven’t confiscated it.”

*

Stiles wakes up and he is so warm and cozy, for a second he thinks he’s back home. He is sleeping on the floor with one leg thrown over the freezer; Scott is laying next to him with his back turned, but still so very close, his body heat keeping Stiles toasty. 

“Well?” he asks. “Have you killed Gerard and came back? I don’t have a black tie.”

“I’m fine,” replies Scott. 

Stiles takes his asleep leg from the freezer and rubs his eyes with the hem of his shirt. His phone vibrates signaling an incoming message. 

_Sorry. We’re having a BBQ. Have fun without me._

Stiles turns to the side, typing an answer. Recently, he became Little Pony in Allison’s phone. 

“Pajama party,” writes Stiles, “much better. Come over. Will also make BBQ.”

Scott controls himself well enough to try and inconspicuously smell Stiles’ neck. Weak try. Stiles pretends nothing is happening. 

 _I’m cooking,_ Allison responds. _Main course. See you Monday._

Stiles sends a reply, but it’s not delivered. Neither is the next. Her phone is off. 

“I feel it,” Scott says, “tell me.”

“Texted Stormy Waters, she still wouldn't put out. Who does she think she is.”

“I feel it,” Scott slides the hand down Stiles’ back. Heartbeat betrays him completely, he thinks Scott could probably tell his blood pressure. “I can hear you lying to me.”

“Allison will hunt today,” Stiles relents. He hates with a fury of a thousand suns when Scott starts to work his dirty tricks on him. “Gerard doesn’t want to be left without a present.”

Stiles thinks about Boyd and his poking though Stiles’ sins. 

Scott grabs his head and, dropping any pretense, breathes Allison, her perfume, her wrist, the remains of her kiss.

“I’ll go to her,” says Scott. 

“She’ll be fine, skewer a couple of squirrels. Scott, they will chop your fucking legs off if they spot you. They’ll make Allison do it.”

“I have to.”

“Look at me. I’m calling 911, better cops than hunters.”

“I’ll hit you,” Scott growls. It’s getting hard for him to talk, the fangs are ripping into his tongue. Stiles scoots next to him. 

“No, you wouldn't. Well, okay, maybe. A couple of times. And Allison will put an arrow in my head if I let you leave.”

Scott is quiet. Stiles uses it. 

“Women see blood every goddamn month, Allison is not gonna faint if she has to skin a rabbit. Sooner or later she has to learn to shoot to kill-”

“Stiles!”

“-just because she’s tangled up with you.”

In the heavy cold silence honks of distant cars flash and fizzle out, separating the sane from those who may never return. Maybe that’s when Stiles understands how Allison put a bulletproof vest made of her scents on him. After all, he is still in one piece. 

“Listen, how about this,” Stiles tugs the hood onto his head with both hands, “I’ll go check up on her and be right back.” 

“Don’t worry about me,” Scott agrees after a pause. “Stay with her.”

For a second Stiles wants to drive home and just go to bed. He thinks suddenly of how far he goes, how far Scott is able to push him. If Stiles looked back he’d see how long ago he crossed the line of sensible borders. 

“Fine, just don’t eat raw vermin. They have worms and all kinds of nasty stuff. I’ll be back and, I don’t know, fry them up over a gas burner”, Stiles says, closing the basement door. “Scott?”

“What?” comes a muffled reply. 

“Do worry about me, though. Worry good.”

*

There are four of them. They feel each other, every movement, the rapid pulse, a meager set of all consuming emotions. They are hungry. They want action. They need to run. But Derek doesn't move, so they don’t dare to.   
He controls them completely. He often doubts his choice, but now he’s satisfied – he’s the only one who stays human. His consciousness is split into Derek and Pack. 

The Pack is frozen, Derek watches the scene unfolding 300 feet away. Pack helps him see and hear everything, every last breath, feel the molecules of scent carried by the wind. Derek sees, and the Pack sees, how seven people surround one. Flashlight beam catches a red hoodie and short sheared hair, a pale unusually motionless face. 

The Pack watches, ready to retreat at any moment. No bloodshed today. The restriction makes them whine, but Derek shuts their mouths without uttering a single word.

“I don't know,” says Stiles. Derek inhales the stink of his lies. “No idea.”

Gerard holds something in his hand. A sharp smell of alcohol; it's a bottle of vermouth.

“Keys,” he demands. Stiles throws him the keys to his Jeep.

Gerard calls over one of his men who stayed a step behind, and gives him the keyring along with the bottle.  
Stiles puts hands over his eyes when his car is sent into a tree. A dry trunk cracks and breaks after the first hit. The hood crumples, but the man behind the wheel backs up and hits the tree again.

“Enough already!” Stiles can't take it anymore.

Gerard blinds him with the lights of the lantern in his face. The man in the car unscrews the bottle and pours vermouth all over the seat and the steering wheel.

“Tell me again how you were just passing by,” asks Gerard.

“I'll tell you anything,” promises Stiles.

“Who told you where to find us?”

“For God's sake, your cars are abandoned by the road. I thought something must have happened. Just got lucky. I mean, I got unlucky.”

“It's GPS, right? You tracked Allison's phone?”

“No, I listened the to police frequency and arrived for a Ku Klux Klan reunion – never seen one, wanted to take a peek. Yes, I tracked the phone.”

“Stiles,” says Gerard, but Stiles interrupts him:

“Listen, it's your business what you do here, I don't give a shit. You could be making deer porn for all I care. I won't tell anyone, Mister Argent. I'll transfer schools tomorrow. I’ll leave the state.”

“Let's skip this part,” Gerard hands someone the lantern and reaches into his pocket for a phone. Allison's phone.

Crushed ice fills Stiles' stomach. Everyone can see him, he can't even grab his cell to turn it off.

“Who's Little Pony?” Gerard asks. He doesn't really need an answer, pressing the 'call' button. “What pajama party?”

Stiles is ready for it, but still shudders when his phone rings seemingly for the whole forest to hear.

“Hello, sweetheart,” says Gerard, coming closer. “Where's your pajama?”

“Home,” Stiles already knows how this will end. “I'll go get it.”

“There could be no trust to speak of, as I see it,” Gerard is still staring Stiles in the face.

“We're dating,” he suddenly blurts out. “Allison and I.”

“Shut up!” yells Gerard. “Stiles, I will ask you once more. ADHD is unpleasant, probably that's why you've been distracted when I asked the first time. Tell me where the Alpha keeps his pack. I know you know. Shut up, Stiles, I know. And it should've been McCall here instead of you. Allison is upset about the phone, I'm upset about you. Why are you here?”

Stiles finally looks Gerard right in the eye.

“Because I'm an idiot.”

“At last, we seem to understand each other. Now, where is McCall and the Alpha?”

“No idea, Mister Argent.”

Derek can smell the overwhelming reek of untruth. The Pack is tense.

“And if you ask a mister Argent standing behind you,” Stiles points at Allison's dad, “he would tell you that Scott isn't pack. So take your shotguns, and your dog food, and good luck.”

Chris Argent stays quiet, so Stiles carries on.

“Do you know who my father is?”

“Of course,” calmly replies Gerard.

“So if you touch a hair on my head, I wouldn't even tell him, I'll go right to the federal prosecutor and pin molestation charges on you, grievous bodily harm, psychological pressure, alien invasion, anything. But if you let me go, we can figure this out.”

Chris knows Stiles is lying. He knows that if they let Stiles go, they are finished. He's seen their guns, his car is totaled. _Damn,_ Allison's dad thinks, _what kind of shit have they gotten themselves into._

“If you cut someone with an really dull knife, marks on the body could be mistaken for animal ones”, suddenly says Gerard.

“Very difficult to simulate,” replies Stiles. “Almost impossible.” Derek feels Stiles' heart skip a beat.

"Where's McCall now?" Gerard smiles. "Suffering in some stinky hole, howling at the moon, sending his friend to stalk his girlfriend. Where is the hole, Stiles?"

"I like Allison. I wanted to meet her. Tracked the phone, saw that she was in the forest, thought she needed help. That's the whole story."

"It sounds like the truth."

"Exactly what it is.”

“Stiles, there’s nothing wrong with you, could be home sleeping or with your girlfriend. You're cute, Stiles. Why are you always with McCall? Why are you letting everything go to hell?”

“My everything is still ahead of me.”

“Tony,” Gerard calls out. “Is there anything left?”

“Half a bottle,” comes a reply from the darkness.

“Give it to me.” Gerard pats Stiles on the shoulder. “For the last time: where is McCall?”

“For the last time: I. Don't. Know.”

“Do you like games, Stiles? Role-playing ones? I'm sure kids today know what that is. Things were different before. Children wouldn't get behind the wheel drunk.”

“I prefer first person shooters.”

“And what's that supposed to mean? Nevermind, I'll teach you. I am your father. No, no, don't interrupt me. Open your mouth,” Gerard is trying to stuff the bottle neck into Stiles' mouth. Derek hears glass hit teeth.

Stiles steps back, but someone grabs him and Gerard is pouring vermouth inside, Stiles swallows reflexively. Chris Argent looks the other way.

“That’s enough,” he says softly, but Gerard doesn't stop until the bottle is empty.

“What am I doing?” Gerard shakes his head. “And I’m supposed to be the school principal.”

Low laughter follows.

“Enough,” Allison's dad repeats. “He's got nothing to do with it. Let's go home, McCall didn't bite, we're wasting our time.” No one is paying him any mind.

You can't kill McCall in his own bed. You can't do that at school. In a parking lot. In a fast food joint. You can kill a werewolf at night in the forest, though. Some maniac chops people up, poor Scott was in a wrong place at a wrong time. What was Scott even doing in the woods in the middle of the night? What a terrible death. No leads. The principal will announce two-day mourning and order a few self-defense classes.

But a hope for a full moon hunt is waning with every passing minute. Today McCall could've made a mistake and, more importantly, brought them to the whole pack.

“What do you think, is McCall a good friend?” Gerard asks all of a sudden.

“The fucking best,” Stiles retorts.

“And maybe he will even come to your rescue if you were, hypothetically – just hypothetically, Stiles! - bleeding out and screaming in pain? Maybe he's somewhere close by, watching you right now.”

“I don't know where he is. I don't know what he's doing. I don't know how you will explain any of this to the sheriff.”

“We're playing, remember? I am your father, Stiles. You come home drunk, you've wrecked the car, accusing a school principal of something I wouldn't even be able to repeat. I think, if I truly was your dad, I'd take you on a trip to a maximum security prison. But all of this is, of course, if you survive till morning.”

Alcohol has no effect on Stiles as of yet. His throat burns, he says hoarsely:

“You're very seriously sick, mister Argent.”

“The very last time, Stiles. A werewolf and a human helping a werewolf are the same pile of shit.”

Abruptly, like a roar of a crumbling building, Allison's dad gets it. They really _are_ going to use Stiles as bait.

“What the-” he cuts in. “No.”

Gerard glances at Chris and turns his attention back to Stiles.

“Just tell me. To hell with McCall, tell me where the Alpha has dug himself a new den.”

“Up your ass, Mister Argent,” quietly replies Stiles. “I can see him peeking out. Looks like he totally had you today.”

A blow knocks Styles off his feet. He's finally getting drunk, so the pain is blurred, delayed in time.

Derek feels someone in the Pack trying to weaken his sight and hearing to their favor. Surprisingly, it's Isaac. His emotion begins to transform; he moves away from Pack, wants to isolate himself. He sees something personal in what's happening, and Derek roughly shoves him back into place.

“What's wrong with you?” Gerard asks, sitting on his haunches. “Always hanging around these stinky dogs, but still unturned.”

“Don’t like peeing outside,” Stiles raggedly exhales.

Gerard is showing him something, it takes a second for Stiles to see it's a knife. A rusty blunt hunk of iron.

“Stiles, look at me. No, no, shh, don't get distracted, this is important. Roll up your sleeve.”

“Enough,” loudly orders Chris. “This has gone too far.”

“We are at war,” Gerard yanks Stiles' sleeve up himself. “And this is a typical traitor.”

“He is a child, what the hell?”

The Pack hears a scream, a rustle of sneakers desperately kneading a layer of fallen leaves, feels an unbearably enticing smell of blood that makes their teeth itch.

Derek sees Stiles trying to get up and falling again, a long jagged cut on his forearm. Stiles attempts to cover the wound, but it's too big and his palm just slides up and down, smearing around the steadily pouring blood.

“Run,” Gerard helps Stiles up and adds, “home.”

And Stiles runs.

He hears Allison’s dad call him but doesn't stop.

Stiles flees up hill and down dale, he's poisoned by the alcohol, it's dulling the burning pain in his damaged arm.

The Pack is satisfied. They are safe. At least tonight the hunters will be tracking a different beast. Derek leads Pack in a direction opposite of escaping Stiles.

This full moon can be considered lucky.

*

Branches dig into his face, small cuts ooze heat, warming him up. Stiles stops and looks for the beam of the flashlight.

They are tracking his blood stains, so confident they didn't even let the dogs out. Stiles tugs the sweatshirt off, getting tangled in the sleeves and the hood, and walks shaking his hand in all directions for a while, spraying blood and leaving an obvious rapidly darkening trace.

He can't feel his fingers; he can't feel anything other than the cold and the dull nagging pain.

Stopping, he leans over and throws up, ridding his stomach of alcohol. He has very little time, he’s sure he hears voices.

 _This is bullshit,_ he thinks. _It's not real. This just can't be fucking happening._

Stiles takes one sneaker off and throws it with all of his remaining might as far as he can up ahead, then takes off the second one, leaving it here. He presses his forearm to the shoulder, wedging the sweatshirt between them the best he can; his body is spasming convulsively, but he doesn't notice.

He's in some parallel fucking universe.

Stiles feels the blood stop dripping under his feet and start flowing down his side behind the waistband of his jeans. He shuffles back, turning left, stepping on the dry leaves, moving slowly, trying not to touch the branches, no longer paying attention to the sounds of pursuit.

Someone finds his shoes and yells: “He's there, up ahead!” and after a while everything around Stiles goes quiet. The forest calms down.  
He walks, walks, walks for what seems like an eternity and the dawn is still not here and maybe it will never come. Stiles isn't afraid of this thought, he just can't believe it. He walks and walks and walks.

He doesn’t make it to the road.

The last thing he remembers is an old, very old abandoned house, and for a second he thinks it's the Hale mansion, but no, the house is perfectly intact. A door has a lock on it and the windows are covered up with something dark.

*

September falls on the windshield in a thin film of moisture. Chris Argent reaches to turn on the wipers, but the sound and movement irritate him, so he turns them off and gets out of the car. A half-empty pack of cigarettes is laying under the seat; his wife would've knocked the life out of him if she'd found it.

He pulls out a crumpled cigarette, trying to light it. His hands don't shake, he just can't inhale properly. Flame of a lighter burns the cigarette down till Chris spits out the butt without making a single drag.

Silence surrounding him makes his ears pop, but Chris doesn't notice Derek Hale walking onto the road from the woods.

Chris is looking at the person in his arms.

Opening the rear door of a car, he takes a step toward Derek.

“Alive?” Chris asks.

Derek doesn't move. His fingers, digging into Stiles' body, have gone white with tension.

“I'll drive him to the hospital. Where did you find him? Did you lead him away from us?” Chris insists. He can't stay quiet. When he does, his restless conscience is tearing him apart.

“It was _him_ who led you away from _us_ ,” Derek finally says, putting Stiles into the back seat of the Chevy Tahoe. His arm is tied off with the ripped sweatshirt. Face is dirty, blueish, cheeks red with a feverish flush, mouth sucking air with a heavy wheeze.

“Thank you,” Chris says suddenly. Derek doesn't seem to notice.

“Why didn't he give you up?” Chris asks. Skin on Derek's face for a moment seems to tighten on his cheekbones, stubble darkening in the hollows on his cheeks. Chris thinks that it's contempt or hatred.

In fact, Derek has no answer. He doesn't know. Instead, he says:

“We've changed our home, Stiles can no longer help you. No sense in asking him.”

“Will McCall retaliate?”

“No.”

Derek continues answering Chris' questions, because correct answers calm hunters down. He doesn't need nervous armed people in the forest, not now.

“Why?”

“Allison.”

“And you?” asks Chris. “What about you?”

Derek shuts the car door.

“No. He's a nobody to the pack.”


	2. Chapter 2

Forks hit the porcelain of the plates.

Gerard watches the family consumption of the French apple pie. There are bits of dough under his nails and flour on the cuff of his shirt.

They wash the pie down with Da Hong Pao tea. For everybody but Gerard it's just a goddamn tasteless tea no one knows how to brew. Also, it has nothing to do with the real Da Hong Pao, but it's an interesting take, Gerard likes it.

“Wonderful,” says Mrs. Argent, blotting her lips with a napkin.

Gerard leans back in his chair and points to Mrs. Argent with a slightly swaying fork in his hand, an informal gesture for a man like him. Here comes a funny story or an anecdote.

“Saw this boy today... what's his face... Sheriff Stilinski's son. Finally showed up at school. How long was he out? Let me think. Ten days, no less.”

Chris and Allison share a look. Chris puts a piece of pie into his mouth, Allison takes the cup.

“Met him during the break. There's something wrong with his arm, it seems.”

_Stiles walks straight at him without lowering his eyes. Face sunken, he still has an air of illness about him. Gerard smiles._

_“Principal,” says Stiles, “good morning.” Stitches has been taken out several days ago, arm still in a sling. Gerard stops to squeeze his shoulder._

_“You too. How's the arm?”_

_Delightful feeling – watching Stiles' mouth twitch._

_“Better than new.”_

_Gerard wants for that mouth to twitch again._

“Did anyone visit him at the hospital?” Gerard puts both palms in front of him, showing that he isn't actually that interested, but he's a principal, damn it, he needs to know. “This friend, lacrosse team co-captain, I think?”

“I visited him,” abruptly says Allison. Her eyes are glistening, something dark emerging in her gaze. Chris thinks his daughter is the most beautiful thing he's seen in years. “His name is Stiles, we started dating before he got in an accident.”

Gerard slowly looks around at everyone present.

“Is that true?”

“Girls sometimes leave their boyfriends for their best friends,” says Mrs. Argent and carries on, not looking at Allison, “I hope you understand that after what happened I will shoot you both if you do end up dating.”

"A drunk teenager driving,” Chris assents. “Allison, no offense, but your taste in men is terrible.”

“Scott didn't visit him once,” softly adds Allison as if not hearing a single thing said. “Everybody visited him, even Jackson. Brought him a bag of chips. Scott never came over.”

This time Gerard stays silent for longer.

“Is that true that you've been dating?”

“We barely started. I was supposed to meet him the night you took my phone. Our first date,” Allison's voice is even and heavy, like a fresh layer of blacktop, steaming as it cools, and with only dead scalded earth underneath. If Chris didn't know she was lying, he would've burst into tears from emotions.

“He was afraid for me, all these attacks, you know. So he tracked my phone and went looking.”

Gerard gets up from his chair to gather plates. “He got wasted and rammed into a tree.”

“That's what he says,” Allison is holding onto her plate when Gerard tries to take it. “Nobody believes it.”

“McCall does. Not once did he drop by. Is it jealously or is McCall just such a terrible friend?”

Allison keeps quiet, drinking the stinky tea.

*

A locker room is noisier than a construction site with all the yelling, bragging and arguing; showers are wafting hot moisture in cloud of steam.

A lacrosse glove falls on the floor. Stiles squats to pick it up, but Jackson snatches it quicker. They look at each other until Jackson asks:

“Not too early?”

Stiles takes his glove back.

“Never too early to sit on the bench.”

Something new momentarily flashes in Jackson's condescending grin. He unwittingly reaches out to pat Stiles on the shoulder, but jerks his hand away from the whiteness of his bandages at the last second.

“And throw stones at you from it,” adds Stiles. Jackson nudges Stiles' chest with his fist and smiles again.

At the school lacrosse field Stiles goes to the bleachers, lowers himself down onto the bench and looks blankly at his stick. His presence here is a pure formality, he’s excused for two months, but doesn't want to be cut from the team. At the very least, he can run.

All he's been thinking about lately, all he wants to do is break all the windows at Scott's house and shit on his bed. Black crushing apathy has siphoned all of his strength away. He can't do it. He can't do anything. He doesn't understand a single thing.

Stiles rests elbows on his knees, hunched over, lowers his head and clasps the hands behind it. He thinks it helps with the pain that has nothing to do with injuries to his body.

He doesn't notice at first when Boyd and Isaac sit beside him. By the sweet smell of her perfume, he knows Erica is behind him as well.

“Fuck off,” Stiles says without changing his pose. “Never come near me again.”

“Aspirin?” asks Boyd.

Stiles has had enough of Aspirin since his painkillers prescription expired a week ago.

“Shut up. Disappear. Enough. I've fucking had it with you. Practice on Derek.”

Someone gently takes his wrist and pulls. Stiles turns his head. Isaac's face is so close their noses almost touch.

“I think you need a new friend,” he says endearingly. “I'll be your new friend, Stiles.”

Stiles opens his mouth, but there's no one to answer to. Scott throws Isaac over the row of seats in a single swift push and yells:

“Get the fuck away from him!”

Stiles opens his mouth again, but his eye catches the field. The whole team and sparse audience are all silently watching Isaac on the floor, Scott, him.

Even Coach isn't moving, whistle stopped halfway to his lips.

Stiles picks up his crosse and goes to the lockers without looking back.

“McCall!” yells Bobby Finstock.

“Don't go near him ever again,” Scott whispers threateningly, eyes moving from Isaac to Boyd, from Boyd to Erica.

“We're his new friends,” Isaac gets up, straightening the jacket on his back. “I'm his new best friend. After what he did-“

Scott's entire body tenses up.

“-we all trust him.”

“We feel how much pain he is in,” Boyd says suddenly.

“He reeks of it so bad my eyes are watering,” adds Erica.

“What?” asks Scott, grabbing Isaac by the lapels. “What did he do?”

“You know, Scott,” Erica whispers in his ear, “none of us could've imagined you'd turn out to be such a colossal piece of shit.”

“McCall!” yells Coach and blows the whistle.

“If you-” starts Scott, but Isaac interrupts him.

“I won't lay a finger on him. And you should stay away. You're good at it.”

“When you're far,” Erica sums up, “he needs fewer painkillers, sweetie.”

*

Something cold sprinkles on his neck, he drops his locker keys and hastily turns. Allison is smiling, rolling a perfume bottle in her hands. Stiles touches his nape and smells her fingers.

“I'm not that desperate,” he admits.

“Now Scott wouldn't be able to ignore you,” Allison replies.

“Scott is an asshole.”

“He probably has reasons for behaving this way.”

“Yeah, asshole reasons.”

“Stiles, just trust him. Give him a chance.”

Stiles wants to smash his head open so that a part of this horrible rending feeling spills out on Allison and he wouldn't have to look for words to explain that Stiles walks with a knife in his back. All it takes is one sudden movement and another muscle tears.

He forgot the last time he felt something similar, but mom had an excuse – she got buried. Scott, in the other hand, is still amongst the living. Turns his face away every time Stiles walks by.

“Allison, none of us are to blame. He's not to blame for talking me into going. I'm not to blame for getting caught. Shit happens.”

This hopeless feeling is so revolting that if he could've just cut something out to solve the problem, Stiles would've been already poking inside with a pair of scissors.

A police officer, dad’s friend who questioned Stiles in a hospital, not believing a single word about drunk driving, asked if there was sexual assault. Stiles remembers his father’s face turning gray and dead.

“No,” said Stiles. “Nothing like that.”

Now he would’ve changed his statement. “I’m accusing Scott McCall who fucked me bloody. Throw him in for life.”

“Mmm, I smell so nice,” Allison is sniffing his ear. School gossip is being rewritten again.

Isaac and Boyd are standing in markedly relaxed poses, leaning on the lockers. Stiles feels Isaac’s gaze stripping him to the bone. _No one has ever done anything for me, dude. I want you to do something. I want it to be you. I believe in you._

“Do you want a ride-” Stiles starts, but cuts himself short. ‘Home.’ To Gerard. To the slow agonizing death in the woods. To pneumonia, to blood loss, to best friend’s betrayal.

“Stiles,” Allison calls out softly, “could you tell me what happened in the forest? Did Gerard do this? What did he do?”

“I got drunk and crashed into a tree.”

Allison’s face goes hard.

“Dad didn’t tell me anything, but I know you’re lying.”

“I got drunk and-”

“Stiles!”

“Everything is going to be fine,” Stiles stares at her with a very calm faraway look of a man that has all the blueprints and is now buying the necessary parts, one by one. “I’m going to be completely fine.”

*

Stiles is driving aimlessly in circles around town.

Jeep's repairs cost a small fortune, but his dad pays for everything, including the tip, and Stiles hasn't heard a single word of blame.

Sheriff visits his son in a hospital every day, only cooks the foods Stiles wants to eat after being discharged, and out of nowhere starts leaving money under the magnet on the fridge.

But the talking part doesn’t happen. Sheriff only smiles stiffly, and Stiles doesn’t feel like dragging the family chat on his back. He also stays quiet.

And aimlessly drives in circles.

Closing the door behind him, Stiles hears someone speak in his father's room. Not really hiding, he stops by the fridge, right next to the living room. The voices are loud, someone is reporting to the sheriff. It's not a social visit.

“-no, the braking distance is clear. He stopped. Then, according to the experts, it looked like someone deliberately sent the jeep into a tree. It wasn't drunk driving.”

Stiles goes cold.

“The bottle,” says dad.

The second person in the room rustles some paper.

“Remnants of saliva and blood... by the way, the tooth was probably chipped before – apparently, he was hit in the face prior to someone getting him drunk. So, saliva and blood belong to Stiles, but prints aren't his. In fact, his fingers aren't on the bottle at all. Not covered up or erased, they’re just not there.”

“Go on.”

“Cigarette butts. Saliva samples of three different people, not Stiles. Anyway, I'll leave this for you to read. Main point – from footprints and tire threads it's obvious that there were three other cars and seven or eight people.”

“Dear God, what did he get himself into? There’s not way he’s dealing drugs.”

“I'm trying to hide the fact that experts were involved, but listen, these damn cigarettes, all of it was very expensive, the State Investigation Service will still reflect these costs in a quarterly-”

“If it is not the drugs, then what? Tooth knocked out. Arm sliced open. Can this be some sort of ritualistic thing?”

“Stilinski. You don't even have a statement from your own son, we can't start an investigation. We need more time to examine the crime scene, you don't open a case based on a couple of cigarette butts and some pictures.”

“I'll think of something.”

“Chris Argent claims he found Stiles by his jeep, but... it's obviously bullshit. Make a request, I'll bring you great criminologists. No offense, you've got it bad in here. I've seen what your guys have written and, according to their report, there was so much alcohol in Stiles' blood he should've been buried two weeks ago. They didn't even mention pneumonia – he spent the night on the ground, not in the jeep, like they have said.”

Stiles quietly retreats up the stairs into his room.

If someone decides to dig deeper, they are going to uncover something they wouldn't be able to believe, so Stiles makes the only correct, if you ask him, decision.

‘Hey, dad, listen, my school principal tortured me trying to locate a werewolf den. Yes, werewolves exist. No, I haven’t lost my mind. That's how it happened, dad. No drinking behind the wheel. Hunters live in town. Mister Gerard Argent is in charge, a completely unprincipled cocksucker. Dad, let's move to Canada. Now he won't leave me alone. You've found his footprints next to my bloody spit. He'll bury you, dad.’

Yeah, no. Not gonna happen.

Carelessly yanking the shirt off, Stiles sets the alarm for half past three in the morning and falls on the bed without taking off his jeans, trying not to bother his injured arm.

*

He wakes up from a vibrating phone what seems like a second later, as if he's never gone to sleep at all. Stiles shivers, rubbing his eyes, glances at the open window and curses internally: did he really forget to close it again at night? Now his room is like a fly's nest.

Frustrated, Stiles pulls the frame and swears because it slams down loudly enough to wake up the entire house.

No.

He closed the window. He remembers the sound, frame slipping from his fingers in the very same way, right after he set up an alarm.  
Dad probably came in to watch him sleep. Mom always worried Stiles would suffocate because he loved sleeping on his belly, face down in the pillow.

Stiles thinks he smells Scott's deodorant. It's nonsense because he has the same one.

He takes two Ritalin pills and waits impatiently for them to work. A sudden awakening amps up his heart rate, the adrenaline in his blood makes his breath catch.

Stiles waits. The day has begun and it's going to be a bad one again.

A bad day, a terrible night.

*

Derek feels Scott's presence long before he sees him. Derek is standing under Stiles' room window, listening to his heartbeat even out and Scott jump from the sloped roof.

“I know what you're doing,” Derek says barely audibly, forgoing a greeting.

Scott lifts his head, looking at the closed window.

“You're doing a good job,” Derek continues, “but Gerard doesn't give a shit anymore. Stiles had fucked him over and now Gerard couldn't care less whether he's connected to werewolves or not – he won't leave Stiles alone just because you demonstratively ditched him. Gerard wants Stiles and he will have him.”

“In what way?”

“In whatever way you prefer.”

Scott silently waits for Derek to continue. He knows practically nothing about that night; hell, until this moment he wasn't even sure it was Gerard's handiwork, even if he suspected as much. Chris tells Allison nothing, Allison has nothing to tell Scott.

“Someone has to look after him,” says Derek, referring to Stiles. “He's asking for trouble.”

Scott steps closer. He wants to ask about a lot of things, but he knows Derek isn’t going to answer.

“He can take care of himself,” says Scott.

“Oh, I'm sure of it, he can cook a meal and wipe his own ass. It's bullets and knives that pose a problem.”

“Derek, what did he do?”

“Something we had no right to expect from him. But we can't take a risk like this anymore, we have a new home. Stiles cannot know where it is.”

“Will you tell me?”

“You'll find it.”

“Derek,” says Scott, taking another step forward. “Some weird shit has been happening with your pack lately. They seem to follow Stiles even into the bathroom.”

“They don't know what they feel. They are grateful, but aren't prepared to understand it. Stiles could've started a war that night but didn't. He didn't give you up. He didn't ask for our help. He didn't bring Gerard to our home.”

“Derek.”

“I have no plans to turn him, if that's what you're worried about. He is too much of a hassle, he complicates everything. Besides,” Derek adds after a beat, “I think he's one of those who _don't survive_.”

Scott feels something odd, a small scratch, an inconsistency. A tiny lie, barely there and instantly gone.

“Derek,” Scott asks suddenly. “Derek, what are you doing here?”

Instead of answering Derek steps back into the shadows of the house. Scott tunes in and follows his example.

Front door creaks. Undetected, Scott hears the familiar cursing when Stiles is trying to do the impossible: start his Jeep quietly. Scott listens, smiling unwittingly, and his collarbones feel broken; that spot burns and aches so much his vision goes cloudy and it's like a shard is stuck in his throat. _I'm sorry, dude,_ Scott thinks. _I know you'll forgive me._

*

Stiles puts the music on and drives so violently that he misses a turn on the intersection of Bickhorn Road and County Lane Road. The Jeep skids on two side wheels, chunks of dirt flying in all directions, but Stiles calmly steps on the gas pedal and the car miraculously doesn't flip over, ignoring the laws of physics.

Paranoia presses into Stiles' sub-cortex to the tune of the song. He's sure someone is after him, this feeling is so tangible and real as if someone is sitting behind him on the back seat.  
He rarely takes Ritalin instead of Adderall and writes off a faint panic attack as a side effect.

Twenty minutes later he arrives at the spot.

A mangled tree his Jeep's hood was crushed against is still lifelessly looking into the sky with sharp edges of the breaking point. Stiles gets the gas canisters out of the trunk and drenched everything: leftover butts, prints, a busted tree. He's soaked in gasoline, so he moves away as far as he can before tossing the lighter.

Flashes of fire fall on Stiles' new hoodie, gifted by dad, instead of that other one, ripped and covered in blood. He curses the goddamn Ritalin that makes him imagine someone's presence behind his back again.

*

A short stocky man is waiting in the principal's reception area. Gerard has been talking for a solid hour to some girl's parents who claim she got food poisoning from strawberry milk in the cafeteria. Finally, a door opens, letting out a badly-shaven man and a well-dressed woman.

“Tony!” comes from the office. The short man puts a magazine with Nicki Minaj on the cover aside.

The room smells like paper and dead plants.

“I've heard already,” Gerard says. “What do you think? They are discussing the night fire.”

It took nine fire brigades and over twenty volunteers to handle the fire. This year's fall has been unusually dry. Someone driving by noticed the flames in time and called the emergency services.

“It's him for sure. That punk,” Tony responds.

“What do you say: he is an idiot or an idiot? Or a complete idiot?”

“You know better, Mr. Argent,” Tony nods to the folder with a Stilinski personal file laying on the edge of the desk.

“I can understand why he didn't give us up to his father,” after a pause says Gerard. “But why did he start the fire?”

“I don't know shit about teenagers,” shrugs Tony. “Maybe his psychiatrist advised to get rid of traumatic memories. Maybe he's schizophrenic. Maybe he is destroying evidence.”

Gerard shoots a quick look at Tony.

“Stiles Stilinski already has a diagnosis and it's not schizophrenia.”

“And the sheriff is not stupid.”

“This son of a bitch,” Gerard taps the photo on the folder with his finger, “is more clever than I thought. No sane person would believe him if he told the truth. But this little squirt gives a strange story and sheriff gets suspicious.”

“So he decides to look into it.”

“Fuck,” Gerard swears. “I still don't understand how seven adult men couldn't finish off one teenager.”

Tony stays quiet. He's glad Stilinski managed to escape. More so, Tony firmly believes that if anyone but Gerard would've found the kid that night, they would've driven him straight to a hospital. At least he would've done just that.

“Well, fine. Why did he destroy the evidence? We left a pretty big mess there.”

“Because eventually it would all lead to you,” says Tony. “And if you ask me again whether this...Stiles? is an idiot, I’ll tell you that he might not be a genius, but he's a smart cookie.”

“He doesn't want to pit the sheriff against us,” Gerard turns away to the window, hands clasped together. “Way too good of a head for his age.”

“If that is all, I need to go,” Tony grabs the door handle. “And you know, McCall really never appeared at the hospital. We checked the visitation records and questioned the nurses. His own mother said she's worried about it. Something like that. So I would leave Stilinski's son be, we won't get anything new from him. We are lucky as it is that he survived and didn't get us into trouble. The best we could ever hope for.”

The office fills with echoes of a noisy recess. Dust swirls in the rays of sunlight.

Gerard puts the personal file into his desk drawer. He remembers Stiles' ragged breathing, his huge pupils, black from fear, and smiles. He wants to repeat it.

No anklebiter has ever fucked Gerard Argent over.

Gerard looks at the lacrosse field sprawled right in front of his windows.

Along its edge Stiles Stilinski is dragging himself along without a hint of enthusiasm, struggling to imitate a jog.

*

Practice is over almost before it has begun, but Coach Finstock keeps on whistling. After a tenth or a thousandth – no one tried to tally, and those who did lost count long ago – whistle, he looks at the grim faces of players gathered around, then at his whistle and says:

“I love this thing.”

And blows the whistle again.

“So,” Finstock announces. “As some jokers staged a fire show in the forest last night, there's going to be a master class on barbecue in the main hall right now. And if a single one of you skips it, instead of the next practice session I will have you taking a test on safety regulations, so you'd roast pork ribs just right for those assholes from Manford in the semi-finals. That's it for today.”

Someone mutters “it took me longer to change.”

“Stilinski!” Finstock yells. “Another lap!”

“Motherfucker,” Stiles mumbles and trudges back to the edge of the field. Jackson throws the ball at him, but somehow it never connects.

After five minutes Finstock blows the whistle again and yells for Stiles to stop slacking, adding a couple of laps. Stiles thinks that his life simply can’t become any worse.

The locker room is empty. The smell of sweat is ingrained into the walls, a stuttering fan cycles stale air, and Stiles decides to take a shower just because he doesn't find listening about forest fires all that interesting. He wants to see another one right now and he's not sure he can hold back. His hair still stinks of gasoline, strange how nobody noticed. The noise of shower water silences all other sounds, Stiles blames the fucking Ritalin because he once again feels eyes on him.

He looks over the shoulder and sees Isaac.

Stiles turns back slowly, lathering his hair with guarded movements. Isaac is fully dressed, even has a jacket on; he just stands in the shower doorway and watches.

Rinsing off the lather, Stiles says loudly:

“Fuck off”.

Isaac leans forward and rolls something on the tile floor in his direction. Lacrosse ball hits Stiles' leg. The same one that Jackson threw at him and, as it turns out, could have hit him with after all.

*

Desk drawer opens with a screech that feels personal. Stiles decides to buy some WD-40 tomorrow and douse everything at the house in it, from window frames to fridge doors. Rummaging through papers, Stiles finally finds the printout of his calls and a sheet with USSD info, showing the location of his phone that night.

The drawer closes, creaking no less poignantly.

Stiles is stuffing the papers inside his backpack on the fly and runs out into the hallway, bumping into his dad in the doorway.

“Hey,” Stiles says quickly. “Have dinner without me.”

Sheriff catches Stiles by the sleeve. “Wait.”

“Dad, I'm late.”

“For what?”

“Some guy promised to take a look at the compression seal fittings for free.”

“Stiles.”

“Dad, I barely talked him into it.”

“Listen. I don't know why you did it.”

Stiles swallows thickly.

“Did what, dad?”

“And I'm not going to look into it.”

Sheriff unclips handcuffs from his belt.

“Dad?” Stiles tries to pull away. “I don't do drugs. And I'm not a pimp. I don't do porn. And I haven't gotten into anything. Somebody is waiting for me.”

“Not today,” Sheriff asserts curtly. “Stiles, I spoke to your doctor. How much Adderall do you have left? He wrote you a prescription three days ago. Yesterday I found a bottle of Ritalin in your room, it was almost empty.”

“I'm gonna go, dad,” Stiles feels the handcuff close on his wrist. “I'm gonna be back soon. Everything's fine, don't worry.”

Sheriff is left to watch the front door close behind his son. The cuff is still hanging from Stiles' arm.

*

He leaves the Jeep in a parking lot and walks through the whole town. A car following him this entire time finally overtakes him at Rocky Ridge Drive and stops on the sidewalk, almost rolling over his feet. Stiles is waiting, watching the glass gently slide lower.

“Get in,” throws Gerard.

Stiles doesn't move.

“Where are you headed? I'll give you a lift,” Gerard insists.

“I know where the graveyard is. I'll go there myself, if I feel like it.”

“Get in, we'll discuss your grades.”

The door from the passenger side clicks and opens. Stiles moves his backpack to another shoulder and sits next to Gerard; he's too busy scrutinizing the handcuffs on Stiles' hand to see a Chevrolet Camaro slide neatly into the right lane and follow them.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're not as simple as you seem?” Gerard asks. Gene Scott is giving a sermon on the radio.

“Was hoping to hear it from someone more resembling of a girl than you.”

“I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you did. Your silence, you know. You've grown in my eyes, Stiles.”

“And I want _you_ to know that I'm of no danger to you,” Stiles says in the same tone, and before Gerard can answer, he adds, “and of no use.”

“That's what I wanted to talk about.”

Stiles looks straight ahead. They've just crossed the city limits and are now driving down empty Mitchell Road, which, as Stiles knew, leads nowhere. It just ends in the middle of the woods.

“I'm an old man, as you can see.”

Gerard glances at Stiles, but Stiles doesn't respond, so he continues:

“Really slow on the uptake sometimes. I remembered another interesting question, and bam - you're hooked to an IV, stoned into next week, no reaction to anything. Can you guess what I wanted to ask you?”

“All I know is that it's somewhere in the Arabian Sea.”

“What?” Gerard frowns.

“Navy threw the body of Bin Laden somewhere in the Arabian Sea. Can't say more accurately. Next question.”

Gerard switches the radio to B-Girl. After sermons it's strange to hear Fat Joe sing _I'm so bad, call the cops, I got props, I'm gonna rule hip-hop._ Stiles doesn't realize right away that Gerard is making music louder and louder.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles exhales before he's knocked out with electric shock, “not again.”


	3. Chapter 3

His own scream brings him around.

“I can't torture my granddaughter,” he hears. Gerard is switching the batteries inside the shocker. “Tell me the names of everyone the Alpha has turned. I know you can answer me. And believe me, if you'd let us catch McCall, you'd fare much better. He heals faster.”

“Fuck,” Stiles blurts out. Gerard shakes his head in disapproval. The second handcuff is fastened around a seat belt holder. Stiles yanks at it, trying to rip it out along with the cuff. “Scott isn't hiding from anyone. Go and take him.”

“Like we haven't tried,” Gerard smirks, “like we haven't tried. Okay, I think it works. Sorry about the last time. Huh, you didn't even wet yourself. How about 90 thousand volts?”

“God, why, why?”

“Stiles, trust me, I'm not enjoying this–”

“Why do you always forget to take your damn pills?”

Next charge turns Stiles' vision off for a second and his teeth clack so forcefully his tongue is only saved by a stroke of luck.

“Names, Stiles. Quickly. Now.”

“H–”

“My daughter died four months ago and these fucking bastards are still alive. Names, Stiles. Everyone you know.”

Stiles is trying to work his jaw. Gerard patiently waits.

“H... h...”

“Come on, I'm listening.”

“H-how about you go fu–“

Stiles doesn't have time to finish, Gerard's car jolts so hard it triggers the airbags. Someone rips the door from its hinges at Stiles' side and pulls him out. “Arm!” he yells. Gerard with a busted nose is flailing under an air filled nylon sack.

The seat belt rips like paper and Stiles is literally dragged on the road. He barely has time to notice a small crane with an excavator bucket crashed into Gerard's car. Isaac is sitting behind the wheel.

Derek pushes Stiles into the backseat of the Chevrolet and peels off right away, so Isaac has to jump in on the move.

“You got any ice?” Stiles asks, laying on the seat and holding his chest.

Isaac, sitting beside Derek, twists and reaches out to Stiles with his right hand. Derek tugs him back and almost throws him into the seat. Before closing his eyes, Stiles catches Derek's heavy gaze in the rear view mirror.

*

Isaac buys two ice packs and some painkillers at a pharmacy. Derek lowers the driver's seat back to a hilt so he can reach back, pull Stiles' hoodie up and inspect his chest.

“You'll live,” he concludes and takes the ice from Isaac before he giving it to Stiles.

“What kind of fucking life is this,” Stiles replies sadly.

Derek carefully places the ice on a purpling burn.

“Why the hell did you get into Gerard's car?”

Stiles is quiet.

“You would've given us up if we hadn't-”

“No,” Stiles abruptly interrupts him. “No. And I'm not going to rat on you even though you've really fucked things up for me now.”

“Two more charges and your heart would've stopped.”

Stiles doesn't have an answer. He hadn't considered this option.

Isaac gets out of the car, opens the back door and leans over Stiles. He pulls his lip down and sticks a pill in his mouth. Stiles eats it dry, but it gets stuck in his throat and he is saving saliva to swallow.

Isaac's finger is still on his lips.

“Isaac, sit down,” Derek orders rudely. “Stiles, you should leave town.”

“I was just thinking about it,” Stiles replies. “Packed my things yesterday. Lend me a couple of boxes.”

“Hold tighter,” says Derek and Stiles puts his hand over Derek's to hold the icepack. Derek doesn't move. Stiles grabs the ice with his second hand, showing that he is holding it well.

At least it seems that doubt was what stopped Derek from removing his hand.

“You want a ride home?” asks Isaac.

“No,” Stiles says tiredly. “I need to go to the library.”

Derek pulls the driver seat back into a normal position.

“You're even more nuts than I thought,” he says.

*

A woman behind the counter at the city library starts saying “Hello”, but cuts herself short on the first syllable. Stiles looks like a beat up junkie: eyes covered in a red grid of broken capillaries, handcuffs with the remains of a seat belt holder peeking out from under the sleeve, clutching his chest with another hand.

And still trying to smile.

“Hello,” Stiles says, grinning from ear to ear. “I lost my library card somewhere.”

Twenty minutes later he sits at the archive section and looks at the broken tape recorder he just procured from his hoodie. It's completely destroyed – a pocket is not the safest place for one when dragged on the ground, after being pulled from a death car.

Stiles rests his forehead in exhaustion on a microfilm reader.

“Well, fuck. Damn you, Derek,” Stiles just sits for a while, not moving and dying of chest pain. He almost kicked the bucket, and for what? Gerard got off scot-free again.

After walking out into the hall to buy a bottle of water, Stiles returns to the old newspapers and looks until he finds the correct edition. Fortunately, the phone is still intact and Stiles takes several pictures. Pale fall light is spilling furtively into the library windows.

Finishing his water, Stiles realizes that it's getting dark, and he hasn't eaten anything since that morning. He takes his drivers license back from the librarian and walks out into the street, his phone immediately rings. Stiles blankly stares at Allison's number displayed in the screen.

“What happened?” he asks, deciding to take the call.

“Stiles!” yells Allison. “Where are you?”

“Near ACS.”

“What the hell? What are you doing at a car service without a car?!” Allison is still screaming. Stiles feels a disgusting tingling in his stomach.

“Stiles! Where is your jeep?”

“At a parking lot.”

“Which parking lot?”

“Allison, what happened?”

“I'm coming over.”

“No, wait, I'm at the library.”

Allison doesn't call him out on his lie. She understands.

“Go inside,” she orders. “Don't leave. I'll be right there.”

Stiles stays outside. The librarian will call the cops if he comes back, he's sure of it.

Fifteen minutes later, Allison's Mazda turns the corner.

For a second Stiles thinks Scott is sitting beside her; he feels like exploded oxygen in his lungs is ripping apart his diaphragm and he can't breathe. But no, a car door swings open and it's Chris Argent waving at him. Stiles takes a couple of steps toward them, the pain in his chest becomes unbearable and he knows it's not from the burn.

Chris impatiently gets out, grabs Stiles by the shoulder and stuffs him in the back seat. Stiles thinks that his horoscope for today totally says something about cars and violence. Too bad he doesn't read them.

“Stiles, where is your car?' Chris asks, turning to face him.

“Left it at the parking lot.”

“Gerard filed a police report.”

“He what?!” Stiles opens his mouth and adds without restraint, “what the fuck?!”

“Your jeep is at the police station right now. A tow truck brought it in half an hour ago. Along with Gerard's car. He claims you've crashed into him.”

“Well, at least I'm sober this time,” Stiles hides his face in his hands. Chris clenches his jaw, he is obviously trying to say something, but just turns away instead.

“Why were the cars towed?” asks Stiles. “Forensics wouldn't have been able to examine the accident scene in this amount of time.”

“They didn't examine anything,” quietly says Allison. “It's Gerard.”

“For God's sake, have you bought the entirety of the local police force? Allison, I'm gonna ask for a plane next Christmas.”

“I'll give it to you,” Allison firmly replies, gripping the wheel tighter. “Covered in rhinestones. With your name on the wing.”

“The police is looking for you,” says Chris and all of a sudden can picture his daughter and Stiles on a date. For example, eating sandwiches made while Forza is paused, cars frozen on screen covered in digital dirt.

“Do you have a place to hide?”

“Yes.”

Stiles thinks about how Chris will never receive a platinum card in this night hunting lovers club of his. Not with such disregard for the chain of command. Allison is waiting for directions and Stiles says:

“Yeah. Take me to the police station.”

Chris and Allison exchange looks and then both stare at him.

“Eyes on the road!” yells Stiles and Allison manages to swerve around a cyclist at the last moment.

*

The cafeteria is full of people, some are even sitting on the windowsills. Many are holding the last issue of a local paper in their hands.

Beacon Hills Friday hits a new record run, the editors have requested an additional print from the printing house twice already. Front page reads “Raising interest rates on mortgage loans”. Second page: a photograph of Stiles Stilinski, looks to be the only one where he's not making faces. Obviously leaked by one of the police officers. Stiles is standing in front of a lined wall, mouth tight, dark circles under his eyes, topless for an unknown reason, the burn mark on his chest clumsily retouched, making it look like he has some sort of skin disease.

“As our correspondent found out, after a drunk driving incident (information from an anonymous source, not officially confirmed – _BHF_ ) sheriff's son hasn't even lost his license, and yesterday at approximately 5 pm 'Stiles' Stilinski had hit a parked car of a high school principal Gerard Argent.”

“Interesting,” Lydia rolls the newspaper up and chucks it at a next table, overturning someone's yogurt. After some lazy yelps of indignation, Scott immediately apologizes and takes the paper back.

“He's already–” Allison begins, but Scott asks her to quiet down with a jerk of his hand.

Allison follows his line of sight. Jackson and Lydia turn around too. Isaac, Boyd and Erica are sitting at a corner table. Erica is noisily drinking juice from with a straw. Opens her mouth wide, licks the edge of a juice box.

“At the end of the day, it's just unhygienic,” notes Lydia. “I've never seen anyone wash their hands before selling anything here.” Erica puts the juice down too fast for it to be a coincidence.

Scott taps his fingers on the table to attract attention. Allison gets her phone out.

“He's been in a cell for two days,” types Allison and shows the screen to everyone else.

Lydia: “almost no one believes this”

Jackson: “he beats off 2 his jeep_everybody knows that if he wanted to crash into some-one_he would steal a scooter”

Lydia: “someone doesn't need a hyphen”

Jackson: “whats a hyphen”

Scott and Allison are gloomily looking at them both.

Lydia: “he won't lie to me, I need to pay him a visit”

Jackson: “yeah so he will jerk his dick off”

Lydia: “use the subjunctive”

Jackson: “???”

Lydia: “WOULD jerk his dick off”

Jackson: “@#$%&!!”

Allison: “stop it both of you”

Lydia: “we will post bail”

Jackson: “put it down as unforseen expenses”

Lydia: “unforEseen”

Jackson leans back into his chair and groans loudly.

“Scott?” Lydia says.

Scott is silent, looking at the paper. His clenched fist is next to Stiles' printed black-and-white face.

“Scott?” Allison carefully covers his fingers with her palm. “Phone.”

“Allison and I will distract them_you go,” Scott types.

Jackson: “you dont wanna go”

Lydia: “don't be an ass, go see him”

Erica, Boyd and Isaac hear only the clicking of a virtual keyboard on the phone. Allison looks back and slowly stretches her lips into a smile.

Judging by the articulation, Boyd tells her to go fuck herself, and Erica adds “BITCH”. Isaac rips the photo of Stiles from the paper in front of him.

*

Sergeant “Ms.” McPherson warns she can't give them more than 10 minutes. She wouldn't risk her career, but that ship has already sailed morning when she gave Stiles cookies she baked the night before. “These fucking reporters are everywhere,” she adds.

“Hey,” Jackson calls out, not coming close to the bars. “Hey, a lone wanker”.

Stiles opens his eyes. And mouth.

“What is this?” he asks, pointing to Lydia, clad in a rubberized yellow coat, eyes hidden behind huge purple glasses.

“It's a disguise,” Jackson explains dully.

“Real Lydia Martin would never wear this garbage,” Lydia adds.

“Subtle,” agrees Stiles. “I'd even say too subtle. Almost undetectable.”

He grabs the bars and rocks his body, rolling lightly from heel to toe.

“You’ve got a nice place,” says Lydia.

“Tidied up before your arrival. Forgot to water the plants.”

“Scott said hi,” to his own surprise lies Jackson, “or something.”

“Scott can go break his legs,” quietly replies Stiles.

“You look sort of sexy,” Lydia continues as if never interrupted. “Such a cool vibe.”

“Why don't you come over one night?” nervously asks Stiles. “When they let me go? I'll show you my collection of bars. I have them everywhere, thousands of them. You'll love them. And the handcuffs. And-”

Jackson looks at him closely and suddenly asks:

“When was the last time you took your meds?”

“Fifty two hours ago,” quickly says Stiles and switches to Jackson's sneakers. “Cool laces. Is it Reebok? Cushioned soles? Did you know that-”

“Stiles!” Lydia calls loudly. “It's against the law. They are obligated to give you Adderall or whatever you're on. They are violating your rights. I'm telling your dad.”

“Dad knows. It was straight up directly his instruction. An askew one would probably be indirect. Did you know that the word “indirect” originates from late Latin-”

“Stiles,” butts in Jackson, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “Here.”

“I don't really smoke.”

“So you don't get raped,” explains Lydia.

Staring blankly at the cigarettes, Stiles reaches out and Jackson gives the pack along with a lighter.

“They say if you pay with cigarettes, you don't get raped in prison.”

“Thanks,” says Stiles. “You are morons, I hope you’re aware.”

“What is the bail at? Who's been appointed as your attorney?”

“I don't have a right to an attorney because they haven't charged me yet.”

“No charge? They can't hold you for more than three days. Your dad is probably stalling so you would get released before the charges are brought forward.”

“I don't know.”

“You don't?”

“I haven't seen him since my arrest.”

Lydia and Jackson are silent. _We need to smuggle in his pills,_ he thinks out of nowhere.

“Why did you crash into principal's car?” asks Lydia.

“Haven't decided yet. I need to think about it.”

“We'll be right back,” Jackson promises.

“Ten minutes aren't up,” Lydia checks her watch.

“There's a pharmacy nearby. We can't buy his drugs without a prescription, but maybe they have something else.”

“Good bye,” Stiles says, looking somewhere behind their backs.

“We will be back”.

“Not today,” says sheriff Stilinski, jingling the cell door keys. “Sergeant McPherson!”

*

Printouts and copies of forensic reports fan out on the table.

“Here,” points Sheriff, hitting the table with his fist as hard as he can. Stiles jerks and shakes his head like he's judging this fit of rage. “Traces of paint taken from the impact point on Argent's car. You covered your jeep with a nitrocellulose lacquer that your grandfather had bought. Listen to me! And the paint at the point of impact–”

Sheriff is shaking the paper in front of Stiles' face. Stiles is thinking about his grandpa.

“–not only was bought fifty years later, it's also yellow! Your jeep was just sledgehammered over to imitate a collision. It's not a crime, it's a joke.”

Another bang on the table. Stiles doesn't twitch anymore, just frowns on account of his poor car.

“Tire threads. Your goddamn jeep was dragged to the spot of the accident. Expert said he wasn't even sure if the engine got started, looks like it was towed there.”

Bang. Printout. USSD.

“Judging by the location of your phones, at the moment of the accident Mister Argent and you were less than two feet from each other. You weren't approaching him, you were sitting right next to him!”

Bang. Printout. Security camera snapshot.

“You. Park. Your jeep. On a paid lot. There's meter data. There's camera footage. No record of how it disappeared from there, but it was obviously at least forty minutes after the accident.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Why. Don't. You. Talk.”

“I think you should change your razor blade,” absentmindedly says Stiles.

“You didn't do it”.

“Ninety percent of this evidence,” Stiles gathers scattered papers into one stack, “was collected illegally.”

“What's going on? What did you get into? How did you get these burns? They are from an electric shocker, Stiles.”

“How did you get these examination results? And in such a short time? Dad, what did you sell, a house or a kidney?”

“Answer when asked.”

“Dad, let me talk to Argent. And you're wearing different socks.”

Sheriff leaves, slamming the door so hard that you could probably hear it a couple of blocks away. After a while Stiles is brought a glass of water and a hamburger, he doesn't touch either. He hopes they will bring Ritalin too, but that doesn't happen. His attention is dissipating more and more. It's hard to sit in one position so he stands up. Picks at walls. Counts the footprints on the floor (he gets bored pretty fast). Tries to remember the songs from his playlist. Sits down again. Shuffles through the printouts.

Dad is leaving him without meds in a hope it will make Stiles tell him the truth. Stiles thinks it's genuinely very very cruel. Stiles refuses food because it's the only demonstrative gesture he has access to.  
In the end, he drinks the water.

It takes at least another three hours, painful and repetitive in every minute, before Stiles is led back into his cell and the Sergeant tells him that Argent's out of town, but tomorrow he will be in for questioning.

Another night in the cell.

*

“Hey,” someone calls him and he loses the number. He was counting brushstrokes in the paint on the ceiling. A hard task, considering a lot of them bleed into each other and Stiles couldn't decide whether to count them as one and a half strokes or two.

For a moment Stiles hopes Lydia came back to look at the bars again, but on the other side stands Isaac.

 _Ms. McPherson's really tired of this job,_ thinks Stiles, getting off his cot and walking to the door.

“Look,” Isaac shows Stiles his own crumpled newspaper portrait.

“I'm a knockout,” retorts Stiles. “Want an autograph?”

Isaac closes in so fast Stiles feels his breath on his face first, and only then understands that he's looking directly into the black dots of someone's pupils.

“Derek wants to know what you're going to tell Argent tomorrow.”

“That next time I'm getting into his car only in a diving suit and with a lawyer,” Stiles tries to pull away, but Isaac’s holding him by the wrists, tightly to the point of pain. Torn piece of newspaper is lying on the floor right between the toes of their sneakers, caught in the bars.

“Seriously, I'll start screaming,” says Stiles, “if you don't leave.”

“It's cold in here.”

Weirdly enough, Stiles doesn't feel it. Isaac is enjoying the rhythmic beating of his heart. Stiles isn't afraid of him. Not yet.

“Tell Derek I will serve him up on a platter,” Stiles steps back, but Isaac isn't letting go of his arms. “I’ll tell everyone how he ate all of Mrs. Gruber's cats last full moon.”

“I know something.”

“Good for you.”

“Derek thinks you won't crack.”

“He said that?”

“He said you should've left town when he asked you to.”

Derek also said Stiles' fear smells very, very sweet, that's how you always know he's is in deep shit. Can find him with your eyes closed. Erica and Boyd laughed hard, thinking it was a joke, but Isaac didn't even crack a smile.

“If he bought me a ticket, I could've thought about it,” says Stiles. “My savings wouldn't even cover gas to the state line.”

Isaac continues like he hasn't heard him.

“But I know and everybody knows what he's thinking: you're not going to say anything. He thinks Argent will kill you as soon as you walk free.”

“For what?”

“For sticking your fist up his ass and wiggling your fingers inside.”

“Well, you're a fucking wordsmith,” Stiles grimaces.

“You infuriate him. I felt his guts tie into knots when you were just passing by in school, like you've had nothing to do with anything. He will not forgive you.”

“It's not an excuse–” Stiles begins, however, Isaac is clearly tired of pointless small talk and he roughly yanks Stiles forward, who barely has time to turn his head and hits the bars with his cheek. Isaac is whispering into his ear, Stiles could swear he feels tongue.

Fear belatedly dilutes his blood. Isaac thinks all of this is fucking delightful.

“You're don't know shit about people, Stiles.”

“But hey, at least dogs think I'm the coolest.”

“You know what Derek calls you? _Asking for trouble._ ”

“It's a verb.”

“It's you. Look at yourself. No one’s asked you to do anything, but you're still doing it. Scott abandoned you, Gerard was waiting for you to come and say: “McCall is bad, I'll help you catch him.” Gerard was waiting for you to give up your names. You never liked Erica. You never liked me. You don't give a crap about Boyd. But you aren't talking and it makes Gerard piss blood. You're asking for trouble.”

“Isaac, you can't come here. Stay away from me.”

“But we are best friends.”

“Isaac, I can't feel my face, let me go.”

Isaac really feels like an animal at that moment. Stiles hasn't showered in two days, he was only given a toothbrush and a pack of wet wipes. Everything Isaac's breathing right now is the scent of Stiles, not masked by any perfumed antibacterial products. His sweat, his hair, his clothes.

“I'm not ready for a serious relationship,” Stiles finally frees himself, sitting down on a shelf serving as a bed and rubbing at the bar marks on his cheek.

“Why?” smiles Isaac.

“Maybe because you're fucking creepy. There should be no misunderstanding between us. There should be nothing between us at all aside from the furniture screwed into the floor. You're creepy. No, listen, let me get this straight, not like the wart on that trash collector guy. You're creepy like being in the shower when you suddenly notice you're not alone in the bathroom and a chainsaw's coming.”

“I like it.”

“What?”

“'Between us’. How you said it. I like it.”

“Chainsaw, Isaac. You're creepy like a chainsaw in the bathroom. Listen, don't mess with me.”

“What can you do?”

“Not me,” Stiles replies, annoyed. “Gerard is paranoid. He suspects that even my Jeep howls at the moon, we spend too much time together. Isaac, if your entire Derek fan club will hang out in my general vicinity, sooner or later Gerard will start checking you too. And you don't control yourself too well.”

“I think you being alive is causing us a shit ton of problems.”

“Uh-huh, come on, get out.”

“Catch,” Isaac throws something at Stiles.

Of course, he’s not even trying to. Adderall bottle hits him in the shoulder and falls to the floor.

“From Derek.”

“I'll pay him back later,” Stiles pours almost half of the contents out into his palm. Isaac watches his tongue lick up the pills.

*

Stiles could only wonder how one manages to look like a prick in a two-piece suit costing no less than ten grand. Gerard Argent has such an asshole expression on his face that no platinum tie pin would remedy that.

“Are you going to bring forth charges?”

“Why do you think I'm here?”

“Don't. Don't bring them.”

Gerard puts his both hands on the table, relaxed, palms down.

“You'll give me the names?”

“No, I will make a request for a re-examination. I don't want to offend or hurt you–” Stiles expressively looks at Gerard, cutting himself off mid-phrase; Gerard nods go on, so he does: “You need to read something published after fifteenth century once in a while, improve your methods. A couple of dirty cops aren't gonna cover for you that well. My Jeep is at a police parking lot, the case has a ton of inconsistencies, you've rushed the tow truck, and it's not the worst mistake – you haven't taken the meter data from the parking lot. Now it's been placed into evidence.”

“For a case that's doesn't exist yet.”

“Oh please, my father is a sheriff. He already has copies of copies of copies of the road dust from the spot of the incident. You think he would sit twiddling his thumbs and waiting for a call from a prosecutor while someone is trying to bury his son with a plastic shovel?”

“Stiles,” Gerard turns his right hand palm up, “I can burn this goddamn precinct along with you and all your evidence. I'm not doing it. Stiles,” he calls again, rapping his knuckles on a table in an inviting gesture. Stiles reluctantly puts his hand in his open palm. Gerard shakes it.

“Friends, Stiles?”

“Whatever you say, mister Argent.”

Gerard leans back sharply in his chair, tugging Stiles toward him. He hits his head on a metallic table top, chest crushing into the edge, right on the spot of a barely-healed burn.

“Oh God,” moans Stiles.

Leaning over him, still not releasing his hand, Gerard spits out:

“Names, Stiles.”

“Yes, mister Argent,” Stiles isn't even trying to get free. Gerard feels the warmth of his fingers. “Stormy Waters, Alexis Texas and, uh, Evan Stone. At the beginning of his career.”

“What's this?” frowning, asks Gerard. “Porn stars?”

“I see you're well versed in the subject.”

Another tug.

Stiles manages to cover his chest with an elbow and hits his head on the table again. He quietly groans and swears even quieter. Gerard thinks he’s getting hard, that's how amazing it feels to nail this goddamn mug into something.

“Talk.”

“Don't press charges.”

“You think I don't know that two men on probation work in our school? You think I'm not aware of how the sheriff didn't report a theft in the store last week?”

“It's all inconsequential,” wheezes Stiles. “Probation doesn't stop you from working in a public space, if it doesn't involve food, life support systems or interaction with the public. They are just mopping the floors.”

Letting some things slide are a given for such a small town, where everyone knows each other, where no one goes to jail for a drunk fight, where the store owner's son steal cigarettes from his dad.

“You think your Jeep still has no traces of paint from my bumper?! It's been three days, Stiles, shove your examination up your ass.”

“What luck,” Stiles' cheek is sliding around on a sticky surface, he thinks of someone's saliva and personal hygiene, “that it was done much earlier.”

Gerard slowly lets him go and sits straighter in the chair, chin held high. Stiles tries to do the same, but the spot on his chest hurts a whole lot and he hunches over, glancing at Gerard from under his eyebrows.

The interrogation room is silent, and yet both – Stiles and Gerard – can almost hear the echoes of gunfire, dull artillery cannon fire, the cries of the wounded.

“Fine, Stiles. You want war – you'll get war,” eventually says Gerard, getting up onto his feet.

“Listen,” throws Stiles in his stead, “stop fucking my father. Fuck me, I'm all here.”

“I gave you a chance,” answers Gerard, all the pathos so out of place in this filthy room with a dim light it makes Stiles smile. “You have nothing more that I need. Nothing.”

“So you won't press charges?”

“No,” Gerard is still facing the door, refusing to turn around. “I'll destroy you, Stiles. I'll use your corpse as fish bait. Your dad's corpse. All of your friends’. If you still have any left.”

“Mention my dad again and it'll be the end of you, Mister Argent,” quietly promises Stiles.

“Look both ways when crossing the road, mister Stiles. Don't cross it at all”.

Gerard's fist insistently knocks on the door. “Thank you for allowing us to be alone,” Gerard says to the sheriff. “I'll contact Beacon Hills Friday about an official retraction. Buy the next issue.”

“I have questions,” sheriff says, but Stiles interjects.

“Dad, everything's fine. I took care of it, dad.”

Older Stilinski looks into an interrogation room to tell Stiles to shut up, but his tongue goes numb.

A dark stain is lazily spreading on Stiles' t-shirt, right across his chest.

“Dad, I have a confession to make. It is I who sneaks into Mister Argent's house every Wednesday and eats all of his chocolate spread.”

Sheriff looks straight at Gerard. He softly smiles and fixes his tie: “God’s honest truth, but I'm not angry.”


	4. Chapter 4

Fallen leaves wetly smell of decay. Cold air swirls water dust around. Lydia silently stares out the car window at the house across the street.

Twilight gently paints her face in broad stripes, hair crunchy from a fixing spray, shine looking like glass on the edge of a curl.

“Who would've thought,” she says eventually, “he wasn't lying.”

Electric window buzzes just on the verge of hearing. Sounds of fall stick to the leather of the seats and disappear.

“He really does have a collection.”

Sheriff's house grins at Lydia with welded bars on windows. Jackson honks.

Taking the stairs in two jumps, Stiles launches himself into a living room where dad is watching “Late Night”.

“Dad!”

Sheriff is pretending to be amused by Fallon's joke about Obama's love for dogs. Stiles isn't buying this shit. Stories about Korean cuisine and the president have bored everyone just as much as listening about all of the grandpa Romney's wives.

“Time to find some other dirty underwear,” says Stiles, turning the TV off.

These are the first words he said to his father in the last four days since he returned from his cell. No school. No friends. No phone calls.

Bars and new locks Stiles took as an ultimatum. He realizes something else, too: his dad doesn't know which side of the house to expect a break in from, so there are new locks on all doors. Closed doors aren't an attempt to restrict Stiles' freedom. It's protection. And sheriff would feel much better if he knew who he was protecting Stiles from.

“Dad, it's Lydia! Lydia!”

Sheriff keeps looking at the black screen.

“Dad, give me the keys or I'll break the door.”

“Is she alone?” asks the sheriff. Stiles rolls his eyes as he does every time when the explanation just exacerbates the situation he's found himself in.

“Dad, will you let me out?”

“Sure,” unhooking the radio from his belt, sheriff says: “Patrol four, calling patrol four.” The response is: “Clint here, what happened, chief?”

“You're supposed to be nearby. Come over to my house.”

“Sure, chief.”

When Stiles manages to break free, a patrol car stops five feet from Jackson's Porsche.

“I thought you were exonerated,” says Lydia, opening the door a bit but obviously not planning on getting out.

“I was never charged. I'm clean. No criminal record,” Stiles replies quickly.

Lydia carefully looks at him. Stiles sighs and waves a hand at the police.

“Okay, I agree, this looks suspicious.”

“What happened to your phone?”

“What happened to my house?” shrugs Stiles. “Maybe you'll come inside?”

“We,” pointedly says Jackson, “will not come inside.”

“Allison asked how you were doing,” Lydia very loudly asks.

Glancing back at dad standing on the porch, Stiles leans in towards Lydia. Jackson scoots closer, putting his hand on the seat in between her spread legs.

“I’m strapped for cash,” Stiles says, voice lowered.

“What else is new,” Jackson whispers back. “Give me what you have there.”

“Can you buy this?” Stiles hands him a crumpled page ripped from a magazine.

“What’s that?”

“Tape recorder. Next, I need a portable autogenous welder and a propane tank. Tool kit, standard. With a drill, but not a manual. If you can, get me a couple of dynamite sticks. And I will also need your old lawnmower, you said it’s fucking unhinged.”

“It doesn’t mow the grass, it digs fucking trenches. Tank size?”

“Whatever. The bigger, the better. No less than 50 gallons. Get two.”

“And?”

“A pizza with mushrooms.”

“You’ll owe me.”

“Your generosity makes me pray for you, Jackson.”

“No chance,” Jackson looks into a rear view mirror, hiding the paper inside his jacket. “How will I give you all this stuff?”

“Just throw it in my Jeep. One day I will saw through the bars with a fork and will be free. Just not any time soon. I have a very dull fork. Tell Allison… thanks. Or ‘hello’. 'Blue underwear suits you better than black’. Something along those lines.”

“'Smother Scott with a pillow’, got it,” retorts Jackson, pushing Stiles away to close the door.

Returning inside, Stiles thinks that a lot of time must've passed, but he still feels like his insides were just spun in a blender. He also realizes Jackson likely mentioned Scott on purpose. The strip of pale skin under Lydia's ridden up skirt doesn't leave his head; her thighs are milky-white.

Sheriff looks into Stiles' face, it seems pallid and sickly to him. “Dinner is in the fridge. Want anything else? I need to go to the prosecutor tomorrow, someone dug up a case about that stupid theft, I'll be back late, Clint has the keys, he'll come over and pay you a visit at lunch. I haven't seen Scott in a while, is he o–”

A slammed door interrupts the sheriff.

“Completely fine,” tells Stiles to his empty room. “He's fucking peachy.”

Couple of hours later Stiles jerks from a knock on the door. Internet is down, he's out of data on the phone, Stiles is watching a live Beyoncé concert stuck on his hard drive by mistake. He's not ashamed anymore that he knows all the lyrics.

Carefully opening the door, Stiles doesn't see anyone. There is a tray with some juice and two hamburgers on the ground. Stiles bends over to pick it up and notices a torn off napkin under the glass. “I love you”, it says in sheriff's scrawly handwriting.

Stiles sits directly on the floor in the hallway, stretches out his legs and hastily eats.

*

Sergeant Clint drives by exactly at lunch, brings tasteless chicken parts from KFC and a CD with porn. Likely a personal initiative. He doesn't give Stiles a copy of the keys, but promises to put his blinkers on when leaving. “Sheriff looks to be stuck there, he'll spend the night at the motel. Who knew he would be raked over the coals like this because of that store. Worse yet, someone leaked a couple more cases to the prosecutor. But I didn't tell you anything. Here's the radio, if something happens at night, I'll be patrolling Heritage Way, will drive over in five seconds.”

Stiles spends the rest of the day in fruitless attempts to get out of the house. His dad dealt with criminals, junkies, prostitutes, schizophrenics – in this list Stiles doesn't even ride the bench. He can't find anything home that might help him remove the bars. He has never picked a lock. He can't crawl out of the attic window, his shoulders are too wide.

At least he finds a spare set of keys to the Jeep. Beyoncé is belting about girl power. When Clint drives by, Stiles turns the volume up to the max, the police car puts the lights on. This continues the entire night.

At midnight Stiles finds himself sleeping on the kitchen table. He's woken up by Jackson banging at the door – somebody told him the sheriff left town. Stiles breaks the uncooperative window at the back of the house and gives Jackson the keys to the Jeep, his arm fits in the gap between bars only up to the elbow. After unloading Stiles' wishlist, Jackson returns the keys and, unexpectedly, a warm flat box with them. “With mushrooms, as ordered,” he says and leaves without saying goodbye.

Porn is very boring. In it no one is using a lockpick or telling how to saw through the metal in fifteen minutes, so Stiles tosses the disk into a trashcan. Sex seems so far away, something he has no chance at – Stiles isn't in the mood to be happy for others.

He brushes his teeth furiously, taking his time, then jerks off in the shower, imagining Lydia in a red bikini sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep. She sucks on her fingers, repeatedly driving over Mister Argent, his guts wrapped around the tires.

Stiles wakes up at five in the morning, shivering. He went to sleep clothed and yet he's cold. Half-asleep, he tries to pull the blanket from under him, and then someone carefully covers him with a jacket.

“Thanks, dad,” mumbles Stiles.

“You're welcome,” Isaac whispers in his ear.

Stiles very slowly reaches to the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the handle of a baseball bat. He left it beside the bed before going to sleep. He already knows it's like treating gangrene with a band-aid, but it’s better than nothing.

“Seriously?” Isaac asks, the mattress sinking under his weight when he sits next to Stiles and puts his palm on his back. _Don't move._ Stiles feels the sharpness of his claws through the sweatshirt. “Does it shoot?”

“All the weapons are under lock and key.”

“Derek wants to talk to you.”

“I know.”

“Everything has changed today.”

“I know.”

“Now they are trying to screw with you using your father. Gerard is writing the prosecutor, he wants the only cops left in this town to be the kind who would never write him even a speeding ticket.”

“It no longer has anything to do with you. This is between Argent and me.”

“Stiles, he's going through your dad. You will tell him everything he wants to know even if he stops asking.”

Stiles sits up on the bed, unfamiliar jacket falling off his shoulders. Isaac puts it on right away and sniffs the sleeve.

“I know Derek wants to get rid of me,” Stiles clutches the bat tighter. “Listen–”

“I don't like your shower gel.”

“–if he wants to do it, let him come here, don't drag me to him, Isaac, it's important–”

“I'd shower again after it, if I were you. I can wash it off you. Right now.”

“–he doesn't have to kill me, I'm not dangerous, I won’t break.”

“You have any pizza left?”

“Isaac! Listen to me! This is serious.”

“I'm sorry,” Isaac squeezes Stiles' arm; a little more and his bones will crack. “I'm so sorry it will end this way for you.”

Stiles stays quiet and breathes heavily right into his face. Fist gripping the bat isn't letting go and Isaac presses harder.

“Are you walking or do I have to carry you?”

“Let him come himself,” Stiles exhales through gritted teeth. He's focused on his arm. He imagines the piece of wood growing into his body.

‘Radio,’ thinks Stiles, ‘I need to reach the radio.’

Finally Isaac leaves his wrist alone. Leftover pain throbs in his forearm.

“Yeah, there's still pizza left,” Stiles remembers he left the radio on the kitchen table near a fringe. He tries to walk past Isaac, but he puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Buckle up,” says Isaac before grabbing Stiles across the chest and falling with him out of an open window. Bent bars are laying in the grass, sprinkled with glass shards.

Couple of seconds after, a police car takes off without turning on headlights.

*

“What, are you car sick?” mocks Boyd.

Stiles silently takes in the darkened metallic structures of an abandoned warehouse. Corrosion is eating away at the beams supporting the ceiling. Lined up along the walls are crumpled containers and several broken forklifts.

“Hey!” Boyd calls and this time Stiles responds:

“So who's going to do it? You?”

Boys looks at Isaac; he shrugs.

“He thinks we're going to kill him.”

“Seriously?” Erica smirks. “Is that what you’ve told him?”

“I didn't try and convince him otherwise. It was fun. He seethed all the way here.”

Stiles looks back and yells as loud as he can “Derek!”

“He asked to give you a bus ticket,” says Boyd. “One way. To Montgomery.”

“You have a choice,” offers Erica. “Either I really finish you off here, or I see you board the fucking bus. Decide quickly, it leaves in half an hour.”

“This is a very bad place,” says Stiles looking somewhere to the side. “Very bad.”

“Why?” Isaac asks tensely. Boyd looks at him.

Stiles points behind him with a bat, then ahead.

“A straight-through building. No windows. With a roof. You can't escape.”

“Stiles, do you have a problem?” Erica interrupts him, irritated. Something indeed reminiscing a bus ticket is crumpled in her hand. Stiles imagines for a second how she bought it. “You're going to beat us to death with what, for God's sake, some baseball bat? Come on, I'll walk you out.”

“Gerard surely has something that shoots better,” replies Stiles.

He senses movement behind his back; sighs heavily and drops his head. There is so much doom in this gesture that Erica, Isaac and Boyd all feel Stiles still thinks he'll die tonight.

Derek walks past, lightly shoulder checking Stiles and stops nearby, back to his pack.

“Go on,” orders Derek.

Stiles makes the first step.

Second.

He closes in on Derek, swinging the bat; he’s doing it so slowly, so predictably. Nobody stops him. Derek covers with an elbow and the bat breaks his joint.

“Get back!” Derek says when Erica and Boyd start moving.

Derek doesn't cower from a second blow, just waits; after a third, his patience grows thin. He grabs Stiles by the throat and yanks him down; Stiles falls to his knees, the bat hitting concrete flood with a dull thud.

Derek leans closer to his face:

“Talk.”

Stiles hears an odd, unique sound – broken bones knitting themselves back together. A moment later, Derek lifts Stiles by the throat using both hands now just to throw him down again, harder than before.

“I want to tell you something,” Stiles is clutching at the sleeves of his jacket, wheezing.

Derek loosens his grip.

Erica grins. _Asking for trouble._

Boyd is contemplating what Derek once said about the smell of fear. There's nothing sweet about the way Stiles smells. Because he's not afraid.

“Sergeant Clint and I were playing a game tonight,” utters Stiles with some difficulty. Erica starts laughing, but Derek gestures her to stop. “Actually, I'm not a big fan of Beyoncé.”

“Get to the point.”

Derek isn't holding Stiles by the neck anymore, his fingers are just resting against his skin, heavy like iron. Stiles doesn't get up from his knees, doesn't even try, he talks looking up at Derek.

“Clint has known me ever since I was a kid. He can imagine how boring it gets when you don't hit a pig with a bird even once in four days.”

“What the hell?” Boyd barks.

Derek tugs Stiles by the sweatshirt collar; he slowly rises to his feet. He wants to be finally heard, so when his mouth ends up near Derek's, he spits out one word at a time, almost syllable by syllable.

“So when a patrol car drove by and Clint didn't blink his lights to my Beyoncé, I thought it must have been some other Clint, in the same car with the same plates.”

Boyd instantly gets it. Isaac and Erica take longer.

“I did everything I could, Derek,” Stiles says on the verge of hearing, but Derek understands every word. Looks into his eyes. “So this asshole would get nothing. And you led him straight into your den.”

In the dead silence of metal walls grows and rises a distant roar of working engines. Now even Stiles can hear how a rubber of tires catches on the road. It seems every car in town is coming over here now, exhaust pipes echoes buzzing in the womb of an abandoned warehouse.

The Pack floods Derek's conscience, it orders him to move. Last thing Derek hears is a frantic warning from Stiles.

_Don't let him get you._

Before Pack completely absorbs Derek's senses, he manages to fling Stiles into the shadow of one of the containers.

Stiles feels the night like a live creature, dying from the clatter of gunshots, blinded by the light. Hunters shoot without getting out of their cars. Stiles hears the screech of aluminum and steel, hiss of air escaping from deflated tires; the Pack is fighting for their opportunity to run. The place is covered in a rain of bullets, the light doesn't dim even for a second, sound doesn't lose its rhythm. Bursts of ricochets bloom in fireworks on the walls and roof.

All of it gets taken over by a long moaning howl. ‘Erica,’ Stiles realizes and, dying of fear, looks out of his hiding place.

There are significantly fewer cars than he expected. He can count seven, the rest he can't see.

The Pack is in pain, the Pack is afraid of the agony that follows it. Derek can't resist the overwhelming panic, he's alone against a huge wave of combined terror. Derek feels the Pack leave him when he tries to command it. Too many instincts, the suffering is unbearable, the voice of their leader too quiet.

Erica couldn't even imagine such anguish. Her screams drown out any orders, all attempts at survival are reduced to spasms and senseless flailing, they are impossible to control. Boyd and Isaac break at once, Derek can't hold onto them. The Pack is losing itself, tearing at the seams into separate islands of despair.

Gerard's army jeep is trying to turn around by the container Stiles is hiding behind.

“Oh God,” he says. “Don't let me do this. Oh God, God, fuck fuck fuck.”

Gerard flinches when the windshield explodes in a net of cracks.

“What the–” mutters Chris, sitting behind the wheel. “What moron shot at us?”

A dull thud.

A second white web appears over the first one.

“It's not us,” hisses Gerard through gritted teeth. “This isn’t a bullet.”

Ignoring safety, Chris pops out of the car and freezes. There stands Stiles, clutching a container lock bar. A heartbeat later, he flings it at a windshield and it falls inside the cabin in a heap of crushed plastic, unable to withstand the last blow.

“What am I doing,” yells Stiles, so pale he looks blue, “God, am I nuts, the fuck am I doing?”

Contrary to his own words, he immediately leans down and picks up a broken piece of the concrete floor.

“I'M SO FUCKED,” shrieks Stiles. “I'M SO GODDAMN FUCKED.”

“Drive,” Gerard orders Chris. “Crush him.”

Chris settles back into his seat, but doesn't touch the wheel.

“Crush him,” Gerard repeats, pointing the barrel of the rifle to the head of his own son.

Stiles runs to the opposite exit from the warehouse, but he's met with warning shots. Looks like some people still remember him from that 'hunt' in the woods and they don't shoot him down, waiting for the instructions. He looks too pathetic to be a werewolf.

None of the hunters have killed humans before, probably. Or they thought they haven't.

“Hale,” reminds Chris. “We'll lose him.”

“Crush him,” demands Gerard, staring straight ahead with eyes narrowed from rage. Shooting subsides. Confusion is spreading amongst hunters. Gerard seems to have lost interest in their main objective and it's perceived as a silent mandate.

They surround Stiles, not risking coming closer. He may look like a lost idiot, but if Gerard has forgotten about werewolves because of him, the kid must be as dangerous as the bubonic plague.

“Go after the pack!” yells Chris. “After Hale!”

They aren't listening and Gerard is quiet.

Chris comes to an abrupt stop several feet away from Stiles, caught in the circle of blinding headlights.

“Crush him yourself,” dry tongue is barely moving in Chris' mouth when he demonstratively removes hands from the wheel. “I won't do it.”

Gerard watches him.

“God,” Stiles says, looking up. “Save me or what.”

Gerard exits the car, holding a shotgun in the crook of his elbow.

“What are you standing around for?” taking advantage of the moment, shouts Chris. “Hale is leaving!”

This time Gerard nods and hunters are reloading, the engines rev up again, but the time has been lost.

The Pack has disappeared. It vanished as if having never existed. It's still around, but the respite has given its composure back and Derek controls it once again.

Gerard closes in on Stiles without hurry. He's not trying to cover himself when a butt of a rifle smashes into his forehead. Icy coldness of the floor helps Stiles stay conscious, he moans but doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice. Gerard lightly bumps him in the face with a foot. His nose is bleeding, hopefully not broken, and his lip feels torn.

There is no need for this humiliating gesture because Stiles won't need to justify the blood stains to his dad. No girl will ever blow him off because of a scar on his lips. No one ever will refuse his kisses anymore.

Because Gerard is silently aiming a gun at him, finger landing confidently on a trigger.

“No!” yells Chris. “Stop!”

Stiles closes his eyes. He has no time to say goodbye to anyone, even in his head, so he doesn't think about it.

The shot knocks sparks out of the floor. Gerard stares at an empty spot Stiles was just laying on, shocked. He's been swiped from right under their nose.

A black shadow is rushing on the walls, on beams and containers, rapidly making its way to the roof.

“Shoot!” bellows Gerard, missing shots time after time, hands shaking from anger.

Chris isn't in a hurry to grab his pistol. Opening fire, he strangely misses exactly twelve times. He hasn't taken an extra clip. ‘Move your ass, McCall,’ he thinks, hiding a smile.

The Pack is watching how the other one is trying to break through the tin sheets and get to the roof. The Pack can't help him, it's wounded and waiting. The Pack uses the confusion to their advantage, looking for a cure – a bullet. Cars are left unlocked, hunters wasting wolfsbane, shooting air; ammo is dumped in plain sight inside open trunks.

Stiles hugs Scott's neck so tightly he must be in pain.

“There,” Stiles points, choking on his own blood. “Rusted through.”

Stiles must've lost a lot of weight recently because Scott moves so easily like he's not carrying anything. A reddish corner of a tin sheet indeed breaks after two punches, Scott pulls Stiles through. Shots taper off.

The Pack watches from a safe distance how the other one carries Stiles in the direction of the town. The Pack needs a new place for a den; it goes for a search, still feeling the scalding stink of electric light.

*

Melissa McCall has already inserted the key into ignition when she notices out of the corner of her eye something like a trash bag falling seemingly from the sky onto the stairs in front of the glass door.  
Her shift ended before her curiosity did, so she starts the car first and then runs back as fast as she can.

“COME BACK, YOU ASSHOLE! Say no more, I've already forgiven you!” Stiles shrieks for the whole block to hear and immediately throws up swallowed blood. It tastes disgusting, he decides, before Melissa McCall grabs his head at the exact spot he was hit in. She yanks her hands away when Stiles calls her son an 'asshole' again for some reason.

Her palms are red.

Stiles doesn't remember anything else.

*

He thinks he needs to die. Commit suicide, if it means just finally closing his eyes. He hasn't slept for two days, so quite possibly started hallucinating, because he definitely sees Jackson sitting by his hospital bed.

Jackson gets up to get a remote from his relaxed palm and makes the TV louder. It should stimulate Stiles to keep his eyes open.

“Hey,” he says. “You like trash TV?”

On screen a disheveled woman talks about how she was fucked by an octopus. She ate it alive and it came inside her cheek. A week later, doctors cut out something out of her jaw, she ate it. The woman says “they were like tiny eight-limbed human children.” Guests in the studio discuss what a loss has science suffered as a result of these egotistical actions.

“Hey, you chicken choker,” continues Jackson, “what are they talking about?”

Stiles hears the question but doesn't feel the need to answer. Contacts have burned out inside his sub-cortex. The information goes into the other parts of the brain and, once there, falls into a shredder because nothing in those queries is linked to the maintenance of normal blood pressure, breathing, swallowing saliva. Nothing important.

Jackson shakes his arm.

“Did Baton win?” lips stuck together, Stiles isn't trying to speak coherently.

“Won what?”

“How would I know.”

Jackson looks into a magazine open on a program guide. “Ah,” he says. “Got it. Australian Grand Prix was broadcasted three hours ago. You're worse than you look, and you look like shit.”

Stiles starts to realize that it is truly Jackson next to him.

“Lydia?” Stiles asks, trying to move higher on the bed.

Jackson rolls his eyes.

“Jackson,” Stiles doesn't need to finish. 'What are you doing here?'

“Are you able to talk?” asks Jackson. Stiles moves his head just so, 'not really'. “Can you at least listen?”

Stiles nods and instantly regrets it. He's brutally nauseous. A uranium processing plant explodes in his head.

Jackson fumbles with the phone, calling someone. It's Lydia's phone, Stiles notices.

“He's out of it,” Jackson is trying to speak quietly. “But we won't get another opportunity. I won't come here anymore, Lydia either. He seems to be coherent, but speak slowly, he's kind of a tard.”

With these words, Jackson holds a phone to Stiles' ear.

“Lydia!” Stiles hears Allison's voice. “I already said I'm not coming.”

“What happened?” asks Stiles.

“I can't leave my house, I told you. I'm sick.”

_House arrest. I'm not allowed to leave._

“Where's Scott?”

“Chemistry’s fine, I passed the lab. Can't help you.”

_He's okay, that's all I know. I haven't seen him._

“Are you not alone? Who's... watching you?” Stiles wants to say “guarding”. Bad word choice.

“Yeah, there's no need to come over, my dad and I are working on a car.”

_Dad is with me. He minds me so I don't escape._

“Gerard will bait Scott with you?”

“You have rats in your basement? That's horrible. We used to have them, but Gerard poisoned them. Just spread some toxic stuff around and waited for them to eat it.”

_Yes._

“What's happening over there?” Stiles can't take it anymore.

“We'll have a lot of guests, need to find bed sheets somewhere. Just awful.”

_Gerard is gathering hunters from other families._

“Allison–”

“There's a huge storm coming. Don't leave your house, I'm begging you. Begging on my knees. You always forget an umbrella. You'll get wet again. This time for sure.”

_Stiles, lay low. You're going to get the ever living shit kicked out of you. This time, to death._

“Okay,” says Stiles and Jackson ends the call. “Will Lydia come?”

“I don't know what's happening,” it's like Jackson hasn't heard the question, “and I don't want to know. And Lydia doesn't want to know. So don't call us about your funeral. It's in the air, I can already hear you being nailed into a coffin. Don't ask anything from me or Lydia again. If you stepped in a pile of shit, don't wipe your feet on other people, no one else is to blame you don't look where you're going.”

Jackson jabs the remote toward Stiles with such ferocity like he's also a screen and Jackson would love to turn him off right now.

“Look at yourself,” says Jackson. “You know, a part of me is convinced I should say goodbye. Because even if you survive, it's only to get into some deeper shit.”

“Pizza was pretty good,” suddenly says Stiles and Jackson pauses in the doorway. “I liked it.”

“You aren't allowed to sleep for four more hours,” Jackson adds without looking back. “And I hope this time no fork will help you.”

“I'll take chief physician hostage,” Stiles responds sluggishly. He doesn't have to look to know the window in his room has bars. Door closes slowly behind Jackson, Stiles sees two police officers on each side.

The nurse is watching him like a hawk, and Stiles manages to fall asleep only by nightfall. He's never slept better in his life.

*

All the town talked about that week was an abandoned warehouse shootout.  
  
One dude claims he'd seen how it started. Looked like firecrackers, he says. Several glowing dots, oh God, the government is using Roswell technology on ordinary citizens.

The next day a couple of street racers show up who argue they were just having fun, shooting blanks. This version is so ludicrous they are threatened with a psych eval.

Shells recovered at the warehouse are standard issue: rifles, pistols, even hunting carbines, but in the cores of a few surviving bullets, in addition to lead, was found a full set of some junk: plant dust, obsidian, even mercury.

By the end of the third day, warehouse owner is found.

He doesn't file any claims; the only thing he wants is to escape this police station, town, state – that's how scared he is. “This goddamned wreck, who even cares what happened?”. With no bodies, the case goes cold.

When Stiles is allowed to get up, he stands at the window for hours, listening to all kinds of garbage on TV, watching people watching him. They switch every day, after five or six hours. Some of them he never sees again. Some return in different clothes.

There are no blinds in his room and Stiles doesn't hide, standing full height in front of the window, arms crossed on his chest. Gerard is fairly cold-blooded, he'd want to extract benefit even from revenge.  
He isn't going to kill Stiles where his body wouldn't be of any use to him.

Sheriff has watched the hospital security camera tapes dozens of times. He remembers every frame. His son has fallen out of the fucking sky, thrown from a helicopter, deployed without a parachute.

“Who pulled you out of your room? Why was a baseball bat you bought last week found in the warehouse? You idiot, you wrote your name on it, that's how I know. Who ripped the bars from your window? They did it from the outside.”

“A freak tornado knocked the bars off, dad. Clint caused it by circling our house too hard. The bat got stolen, some homeless guys probably wanted to play their homeless baseball.”

Before – quite often, in fact – sheriff has been visited by a need to cuff Stiles over the head. This time he wants to punch. As hard as he could, to beat all the mistrust and lies out of him. He looks into the face of a man on a hospital bed: sharpened cheekbones, stitches on his lip, sunken eyes, a bandage hiding a new scar, beside a similar one received many years ago, a thin white stripe on a short-sheared head.

“Everything's okay, dad. I want a ham sandwich. Why can't I have a ham sandwich?”

Somebody took Stiles and left a stranger instead – beaten, wounded, lying.

No one visits Stiles after Jackson. He seems glad.


	5. Chapter 5

A male nurse who comes over to the police officers standing guard by the hospital room door is KJ Bellman, according to his nametag.

“You lot are sleeping on your feet,” he says.

“We're okay,” replies cop #1.

“He's not going anywhere either way,” adds cop #2. “Cuffs.”

“Let me bring you some coffee, guys,” Bellman sighs. “I also have a night shift.”

Policemen exchange looks, cop #1 shrugs.

“No sugar,” asks cop #2.

Having treated the police to some coffee, Bellman exits the hospital and takes his scrubs off; crumples them, hiding in a paper bag that he tosses it into a trashcan. Comes back around into the building, sits by the registration desk and opens a magazine. In small hospitals the staff knows perfectly well whose shift is on and who doesn't even work here - that's why 'Bellman' waits patiently, looking at photos of Selena Gomez and Nick Jonas. Nurse's scream makes him smile.

“Oh my God! What happened?! Can you hear me? Someone call the sheriff!” The nurse rushes into the hall to grab the phone.

Both cops have fallen into lethargy, sliding off the chairs, competing with each other in the force of their snoring.

Weightless note of sweetness in a mess of hospital stench. A drop of ink in the water. The darkness is spreading, the water in the glass will never be clear again.

Antiseptic stuffiness is diluted by a sweet smell of _his fear._

*

Stiles squints from a rectangle of bright light, spilling out onto him from the hallway. Boyd waits till Derek walks in and closes the door tightly. They both press themselves against the wall because the nurse pokes her head inside right after, but sees only Stiles who gingerly waves at her.

“Don't worry, we called your dad already, he'll be here in three minutes,” she says and waves back.

The lock clicks shut.

“I thought Gerard got tired of waiting,” divulges Stiles when Derek comes closer. Boyd rustles a plastic bag; a pair of jeans, sweatshirt and socks fall out onto the bed.

Breath catches in Stiles' throat when Derek leans in, grabs him by the collar of the hospital pajamas and tugs sharply. Boyd pretends not to notice.

Derek's stiff stubble is scratching Stiles' neck, then behind the ear, and then under the chin. Derek isn't scenting him, he's _breathing_ him.

“It's the antibiotics,” says Stiles. “That's probably the smell.”

Derek pushes him away with an awkward motion. “Move it.”

Instead of answering, Stiles jerks his hand. A padded cuff used for violent patients responds with a dull strum of magnetic fasteners.

“Unlocked by a nurse's keycard,” he says. “They left me another hand free, to masturbate. For the first time ever someone made me regret I'm not left-handed. Probably if I call a nurse, you could–” Derek breaks the handcuff with a single tug, “–use your powers, wolfman,” Stiles says and quickly starts changing. “I forget about the additional options all the time.”

“Can you walk?” Derek asks abruptly.

“Watch me,” Stiles manages to put his leg inside the pants only on a third try.

Boyd walks to the window, but Stiles asks tiredly.

“Through the door. Please.”

Boyd is already tearing the bars apart.

“Back or arms?” Derek asks; Stiles doesn't understand. There is a fuss behind the door and he hears his dad's voice. Derek roughly grabs Stiles in his arms and manages to fall out of a mangled window before the sheriff opens the door.

Hunters don't dare to open fire in the presence of the law enforcement.

*

On its way to the sheriff's house Camaro stops at the curb several times. Stiles pukes.

After the last time he yanks the bandages off his head, wipes at his mouth and tosses them into the bushes. Isaac makes him drink water without giving him the bottle.

“Get your things,” Derek orders, parking almost on the porch. “And let's leave.”

“I don't have my keys,” says Stiles, patting his pockets. The sweatshirt still has a tag on; Isaac rips it off, getting out of the car after Stiles. “Just don't break the do– Awesome, I need to learn to talk faster.”

Standing in the middle of the living room, Stiles thinks that the only thing he would like to take is his father's gun. Just shoot Gerard right between the eyes. Problem solved. For the next sixty years in maximum security.

Upstairs in his room, Stiles climbs into the closet and removes a small false panel in the shoe compartment. When your father's the sheriff, you learn quickly to hide things so they at the very least wouldn't be found right away. The room was obviously searched, but they were being careful and that affected the results. It's unlikely they discovered anything beside Lydia's spank bank materials or a joint that Stiles couldn't finish off when Scott slept over here last, gaming all night and taking breaks for movies.

After grabbing the Jeep keys and the printouts from his hidden stash, Stiles is pulling on sneakers, but suddenly stops. He thinks for exactly one second.

When Derek gets tired of waiting and goes up to Stiles' room, he sees a pile of clothes on the floor and hears the sound of water.

“Now's not the time!” Derek roars, throwing the bathroom door open. Stiles tries to wash himself faster, but his coordination is still shot. Shower gel is lying on the floor, along with a bottle of shampoo and other toiletries.

Stiles isn't paying Derek any attention. Turning the water off, he squeezes by him to a stack of towels, leaving a wet patch on Derek's shirt. He’s trying to dry himself off and brush his teeth at the same time. He needs to get rid of the taste of vomit in his mouth, he can already feel his enamel throwing its darkened white flag, surrendering to the stomach acid. Disgusting feeling. His tongue is like a piece of cardboard, scratching the roof of his mouth. He spits out bits of food into the sink along with the blood from his stitched up lip.

“Well?” Isaac pops his head into the bathroom. “Fuck, Stiles!”

“I haven't had a proper shower for a week,” Stiles says, squeezing the toothpaste right into his mouth. “A slice of cheese hugged me at breakfast and called me “mom”. Fuck, what if I don't get another chance?”

Derek is unsettled by the way he said it.

Isaac grabs a new towel and starts scrubbing Stiles down.

“Fuck off,” Stiles chokes out.

“We can't wait for you to trim your toenails,” despite his words, Isaac's movements become slower. Stiles doesn’t notice, preoccupied with his stitches, puke, blood.

“The car, Isaac,” rudely commands Derek. “Now.”

In the mirror Stiles notes a strange look given by Isaac to Derek; he decides in has something to do with “if we dismember Stiles, we would have less problems, our trunk is big”, that's how threatening of an expression Derek is wearing.

Derek leaves only to return with Stiles' clothes.

While Derek is lacing his sneakers and while Stiles is getting tangled in the sweatshirt sleeves – the fabric sticks to the poorly dried off skin – he thinks he must've really pissed everyone off. He doesn't give a shit.

Isaac is holding the car door open, but Stiles walks to his Jeep, carrying papers and a bag of food with his headphones hanging over the wrist.

“Stiles!” Erica calls.

Derek could've cursed but just sucks the air through clenched teeth, grabs Stiles by the hood and pulls him to the Chevrolet.

Stiles does the only possible thing in this situation: he drops to the ground, clutching the bag with his valuables to his chest.

“I'm going in the Jeep,” he says without getting up.

“Fine,” Derek agrees, looking down and not letting go of his hood.

“In the opposite direction,” Stiles adds.

“You're going with us.”

Boyd, Erica and Isaac stare.

Stiles ponders about what awaits him. He would be surrounded by Erica's boundless love and her games of 'every time I will go further in our bickering until I finally cross the line behind which the reminder of the way I was before will not hurt me anymore’. Boyd and his 'I know what you ate last summer'. Isaac and the reasons for his, Stiles was sure, hatred that would have Stiles waking up in cold sweat in the middle of the night to check if he got a turd in his mouth while he slept.

Derek and his constant reflections on the fact that dead Stiles was much less of a pain in the ass than alive. Stiles assumes Derek tries not to think in this manner more than twice a day but that interval may shorten with time.

Erica, Isaac, Derek, even Boyd – all of them want Stiles close. They need him in the strangest way possible.

 _Oh my God,_ Stiles thinks, _I'll kill them in their sleep._

“Hit the road,” he says. “It's my business.”

“That's your opinion,” Derek helps him up.

“Why the hell did we wait for him?” wonders Boyd.

“What if my car battery died,” Stiles retorts. “Listen, any of you have a phone with GPS? I'm not going to call anyone, I just need the map.”

Erica gives him his phone. He promises to give it back. No one believes him.

Engine starts from the first try. “Oh, no, my battery is fine. Good luck getting the hell away from everyone,” Stiles yells in goodbye.

“What a fucking moron,” Boyd swears.

“How does he plan to barf and drive at the same time?” Erica asks.

Derek turns the Chevrolet around and heads back downtown. If you want to hide, do it in full view of everyone. Leave those who are looking for you completely fucking appalled at your arrogance. They wouldn't even think to check their own attic.

*

Chris enters Gerard’s room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“How did he escape?” Gerard asks. He is surprisingly calm.

“Hale helped, pulled him out of the hospital window. The guys checked – the Jeep is gone. Everyone is ready, we can move out.”

“No,” answers Gerard. “Hale hid him, we'd just waste our time. Sheriff will rile up every cop in the state to find his son. We will just come and take him before Hale, should have done it like this to begin with.”

“May I say something?”

“If I wanted you not to have a personal opinion, believe me, you wouldn't have it.”

“We are spending too much energy on Stiles, we've already lost the pack because of him.”

“Allison, go to bed,” Gerard orders suddenly.

A quiet echo of retreating footsteps is heard from behind the door.

“McCall got into a firefight to rescue him,” Gerard looks his son in the eye, squinting. “And today Hale risked everything to get him away from us. You know what seems very strange to me? Stiles isn't pack. He's a nobody. He takes pills to be able to listen to the end of a sentence.”

“McCall and him were close friends.”

“Hale had the opportunities to turn Stilinski, I'm sure of it. He didn't do it. I want to know what's wrong with this Stiles, I want to wound his guts on my fist while he tells me. You know what people say about me, Chris? Know why all of these people are in our house just because I asked them to come?”

“Because you're the best.”

“Because I don't lose my own. What happened to Kate wasn't just a tragedy and my personal grief, it was a hit to my reputation. I couldn't protect my own daughter. The pack are still pipsqueaks, but with McCall and Hale they are worth something. You saw how they got away, dissolved like fucking ice in water. If Stiles won't lead us to them, I'm sure they will come for him. And I don't get why, damn it. Animals don't have moral qualities. People have made them up. We can't allow people to start thinking that werewolves don't eat infants, that werewolves can live among us without killing or turning. We can't allow people to think at all, about us and these creatures. None of this exists.”

“Peter Hale killed Kate. Peter is dead. If revenge is the case, then–”

Chris wants to say “–it has been achieved. If something else is the case, then we need to act differently”, but Gerard interrupts him:

“Shut up. What's happening here is a precedent. And we need to finish this. Stiles will never tell anyone how werewolves helped him, because Stiles will be found in the forest with his throat ripped out and the whole pack will be dead. And no hunter will be harmed. That's how it will be done. Chris?”

“Yes. That's how it will be done.”

Allison clamps her mouth shut with both hands, leaning into the wall and trying not to breathe.

*

The night is impenetrably dark, and this place further veils his eyes blind, still black after the fire. Stiles knows his father won't go here; sheriff is sure Stiles has done everything he needed to do.

Stiles hasn't even started.

He drives as deep into the forest as he can. Jeep easily takes the clearing made by firemen, crushing young trees further down and crumbling stray wood, but stops dead midway. Stiles checks the map printout, GPS, checks information stolen from his dad about his phone's whereabouts that first horrible night. Opening a bottle of water, Stiles drinks almost half of it, swallows the pills, takes a toolbox and goes forward on foot.

When he sees a sneaker among the rotten leaves, the one dropped then, a panic attack swallows him whole.

He sits by a tree and waits till the blood stops pounding in his ears. Cold sweat on his back makes him want to run, but he waits and doesn't move. _What are you doing, just think, it's not a movie, you're alone, you can't do anything, you saw it all on tv, you can't pull it off, go back and tell dad everything, hide, go to sleep._

Everything Stiles planned suddenly seems so convoluted. Too many details, too much depends on luck.

Isaac said Stiles doesn't know shit about people.

Even if he assembles his mousetrap correctly, a mouse can still pull out a gun and shoot him without paying any attention to the cheese.

Stiles gets up from the ground and turns left.

Eventually he does end up at the abandoned house, even though at times it seemed the house was just a hallucination amongst his memories.

Single-story building stands right in the middle of the trees, the windows welded shut with sheets of metal. Stiles studies the satellite printout, there is only forest on it. The house looks /old/, it should've been detected. Stiles double checks the GPS: everything is correct. That's where Stiles passed out, got pneumonia, died before sunrise.

Photo of a newspaper article pops in front of his eyes. A short little footnote; if Stiles hadn't stumbled upon it in the archives, he would have looked no further. Would have just settled on the hallucination theory.

“Six bodies discovered at a country house territory belonging to a sixty year-old Lloyd Argent. The property has been acquired in violation of multiple laws, it has since been released into state property. In connection with the tragic events the building has been demolished, a criminal case has been brought against the owner.”

And that's it. No photo even. Just the date – thirty two years ago, March 12th. Stiles couldn't find any mentions about what happened next in the following issues. Probably thirty years ago someone managed to wash their hands clean of this though money or power or threats. Stiles can't imagine how it is possible, he's the son of a sheriff, his father is an honest man.

These days internet maniacs wouldn't stop digging into a mass murder until the perpetrator posts a video confession on YouTube.

Leaving a toolbox at the front porch, Stiles returns to his Jeep for the rest. He'd have to go back a few more times. A pale strip cuts though the sky in the east.

Propane tanks are the hardest, Stiles spends no less than an hour on each. Jackson, of course, couldn't get any dynamite sticks, but the lawnmower is full of gas and in a working condition.

When it gets light enough that the water sparking in the puddles blinds his eyes, Stiles goes to sleep inside the Jeep and doesn't wake up till the night falls.

He is roused by the cold and ant bites. Teeth clattering, Stiles eats a sandwich, downing it with water, pisses on a tree and just then realizes there is one more need he has to but cannot meet. He has no one to talk to.

So he talks to the tools, to a lawnmower, to a propane tank. Internet can't replace a lack of experience. Stiles looks for a user interface on a welder and almost burns the damn house down. He doesn't have enough patience.

“Well, aren't you stubborn,” Stiles complains, aggravated. He barely manages to cut out the old lock from the door.

The lawnmower ends up being a beast. Jackson has written it off for one obvious reason – it is untamable. The machine is finally released into the wild and drags Stiles behind who lets it mutilate the house walls, upend the earth, lynch the trees, ripping the bark from them.

“A LITTLE MORE, BABY,” yells Stiles, listening to the song in his headphones, not hitting a single note.

Sure thing, honey. However much you need. Look back, someone is watching you right now. Someone is smiling like it's the first time ever. You don't see it, and even if you did, you wouldn't believe.

Propane turns out to be an problem, Stiles doesn't know how to blow it up.

He looks online until the data runs out, but all he can find are accident reports and instruction manuals. He also finds his father's photo on the town news website: “Prosecutor summons sheriff again into the state capital, sheriff's son kidnapped from a hospital a day before.” Described so dryly, in one line, as if these events are connected.

Finally Stiles decides to crack this, in his opinion, the easiest way possible. He starts a fire not far from the house. Ties a rope around the tank. Opens the valve. Steps back three hundred feet or so. Hides behind the tree. And pulls the open tank to the fire.

*

“Oh my God,” sighs Mrs. Gruber, holding a can of cat food. “The town shakes so much these days like there is a volcano nearby, yeah, Missy?”

A fat cat eyes the can opener in Mrs. Gruber's hands with a look of a labor camp prisoner. _Get a move on, you old hag, or I will lie on your face at night_ – that's what Missy would've said if she could talk. A chandelier sways lightly at the ceiling. An alarm of an old Ford is wailing outside.

Mrs. Gruber looks at her feet, unwittingly tasting the cat food, and sighs again.

“We need to move the hell out of here. Away from the forest.”

Unfortunately, Mrs. Gruber doesn't call the police. After Mossad agents started stealing her cats, people at the precinct hang up if her call has nothing to do with a danger to her life. For some reason.

*

The tree has been practically axed in half by a shard of the propane tank.

“Oh my God,” Stiles breathes out, squatting and covering his head with his hands, afraid to move because a broken carcass of a cedar tree is balancing precariously over him. “Oh God, oh Lord, oh fuck. Never again, God, thank you. Never again.”

The house is in a bad shape. One wall has its windows blown out. Warped steel sheets look like crumpled paper. Somehow finding his way out of his hiding place, Stiles dusts himself off.

“These things shouldn't be for sale! It's fucking insane! It's terrorism! It's death! Some fifty odd gallons, and what if a hundred? AWESOME! Scott, did you see this?”

Stiles freezes with his mouth hanging open.

Why now. Why did his memory spit out this name. For a brief moment Stiles thinks he can't deal with it, he doesn't have enough air. He wasn't ready, he opened up, he punched himself in the face.

All of his enthusiasm evaporates in an instant. Stiles thinks he just can't hate Scott more. It's unbearable, so it has to go away. Disappear.

Turning around, Stiles notices movement.

“Scott?” His voice sounds odd. “Scott, is that you?”

Of course, it's not the cops, not the Pack, not the vengeful squirrels who lived in a fallen cedar. It absolutely has to be Scott, Stiles is sure of it.

“Don't be a pussy, I won't do anything to you!” Stiles calls out, rushing to where he thought he saw a shadow. “I'll kill you, Scott, stop!”

He keeps running until his lungs threaten to give out. He hunches over, pressing his palms into his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Scott, fuck, Scott,” mutters Stiles. He's a bit woozy, ears plugged up after an explosion, vision swimming with red dots.

Derek watches him undetected. He knows Stiles won't catch up to him anymore, but continues walking away further and further, until he can't hear his heartbeat, until the sounds of breathing don't dissipate in a rustle of dead leaves under his feet.

‘I wonder how he will put all of this out,’ Derek thinks.

Flames of a fire lick the house.

*

Mrs. Gruber opens the door a smidgen, sticks her nose out and asks:

“Who're you?”

“Is this Mrs. Gruber?”

“And who are you supposed to be? Did someone complain about the cats?”

Three quite elderly men, worrying their feet on a “Welcome Don't Step On A Tail” doormat, exchange looks and the grayest one answers:

“My name is Gerard Argent. No, we're not interested in cats.”

“So you're not the police?”

“We are working with the police, yes.”

“Really.”

“I'm the school principal.”

“I recognized you.”

“We're helping them in search of the sheriff's son.”

“Oh yes. A nice boy.”

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Gruber,” Gerard smiles pleasantly, “your house is the closest to the woods.”

“So I've noticed.”

“Have you seen anything suspicious? Was something bothering you? The neighbors told us your car alarm went off.”

“That jalopy starts yelling even if someone farts walking by,” Mrs. Gruber replies, irritated. She can't stand her neighbors, even if the nearest ones live over a mile away. They all seem to hate cats.

“Got it,” drawls Gerard. “What about smoke? Have you seen any smoke? We had some fires recently.”

Saying this, Gerard involuntarily turns to look at the cloudless clear sky over the forest.

“I assure you, if something happened, I would've been the first to call the police. Ask at the precinct, they know everything about me. They'll tell you.”

“Sorry for bothering you.”

Closing the door with two locks and a chain, Mrs. Gruber goes back to her armchair, sips her tea and can't help herself, saying:

“There you have it. Fucking cops can suck it.”

*

Stiles holds his head with both hands, sure that he got a concussion from the blast. What he’s seeing can only be explained with this. Stiles would bet he can't go crazy, so the possibility of an insanity is off the table.

Flames are receding, getting erased, returning to the coals. Stiles misses the specific moment when the house becomes exactly the way he'd been before the explosion. Not a scratch on the walls. Not a trace of soot. Not a single bent sheet of metal on the windows.

Untouched house stands in the middle of scorched earth. Door slightly ajar. Lock still in place.

“It was bound to happen,” Stiles whispers to himself, taking a step forward. “I got bashed over the head too often.”

Quietude seems to hit him in the back. He heard the noise of the forest, hiss of a dying fire, and suddenly all of it is gone. The air seems warmer, however, it doesn't smell of anything. The sky has frozen.

Clouds of smoke settle on the ground in heavy flakes. Stiles checks the charge on his music player – all good, but the volume is on mute.

Someone whimpers pitifully. The silence is so pure and white, Stiles can hear even this stillborn sound.

“Hello?” he calls out.

A whimper repeats. It's coming from inside the house.

Stiles thinks about the reality of the situation, he still feels the ground under his feet, smell his skin of his fingers. No hallucination can be this complete. Stiles knows he has nothing to compare it to, but he's sure of one thing – the freedom of his choice. He is never going inside.

He's probably laying right now, bleeding out and dying, and his brain is loading his conscience up with some bullshit, saving it from the shock.

If he's on his feet and any of this is happening in real life, Stiles will catch on fire if he enters the house. There, in a different reality, it’s still an inferno.

Stiles takes a step. Another one. He'll just check, the burn will make him come to. If there is so much pain he blacked out, add some more. This will either shake him awake or finish him off. Stiles firmly believes in the former.

His hand touches the door frame. Nothing. Just warm wood under his palm.

“Hello?” says Stiles, peeking inside.

Windows are wide open, it's light inside and no furniture, just something dumped in the corner, covered with a cloth. Stiles checks how the windows look from the outside – they are still welded shut.

“Awesome,” Stiles says with admiration, going back inside the house and, to be absolutely sure, leaning out of every window. He just sees the same destruction he had caused.

Nothing else happens. Stiles traipses round the rooms, all of them empty. No water in the faucet, no electricity. Stiles gets bored and wants to leave but then remembers the second propane tank.

Having dragged it into the house, he leans it on the wall and dusts off his palms. ‘Well, at least this way no one will steal it,’ he thinks.

A pile of trash in the corner draws his attention. He almost forgot about it. “This is a fucking anomaly,” he mumbles, unable not to talk at least to himself. Rotten fabric slides off, revealing mirrors stacked on top of each other. “I'll do a physics lab about it, everyone will freak.”

The mirrors look cheap as hell, framed in plastic. Stiles takes the uppermost one.

It's covered in a layer of dust. Stiles has no intention of wiping it off, he doesn't want to see his reflection. At least till his lip heals.

Stiles glances back at the door. In horror movies they always slam shut from a gust of wind, leaving some dudes to be mite chow or making them sort things out with axes. There is no wind, the air is motionless, door is still open. Taking a quick glimpse at the mirror Stiles wants to put it back.

_Six starved here. They are still hungry. You are next._

Stiles looks at the inscription as if made with a finger on a dusty surface. The mirror falls and shatters, Stiles looks at his hands.

He wrote it.

Terror washes over him with such force it hurts, chest bursting from a frenzied heartbeat. He's suffocating. His hands are shaking. He can't swallow his own spit. He can't blink, dust settles onto his eyeballs, they water, he can't see. Lungs had stopped working, blood flow rips the vessels open.  
He wants to hear that whimper again, anything at all, but when he screams, he can't even hear his own voice.


	6. Chapter 6

The window frame rises quietly.

After taking another sip of coffee, after poking through her teeth in search of any asparagus left behind, switching the channel again, staring at the wall, listening to the same song for the fourteenth time in a row, Allison feels it's time. If she doesn't do anything right now, the next sip will drown her, the asparagus will take root, TV won't turn off ever again and all music will cease to mean anything.

Allison slides out onto the roof. Not trying to hide, she gets down on a front lawn. Walks to the road without looking back.

She walks in plain view, that's why no one notices her right on the dividing strip; she knows Scott isn't home, can't be on a night like this. She doesn't have keys, but he always leaves a window open.

She's just going to sit in his room till morning and wait for him to come back.

*

 _“Stiles!”_ yells Derek. _“Stiles, fuck!”_

Derek didn't plan on going back, he wanted to give Stiles some time to be alone. And, if in a couple of days Stiles didn't kill himself, he could've paid him a visit. Derek would wait until Stiles asked for help, in any way. Derek is certain Stiles' trap is too complicated for Gerard to spring it.

Derek didn't plan on going back. He just turns and sees the fire gone. The flames disappear. He doesn’t believe his eyes, but his other senses confirm it.

Then a smell hits Derek's nose. Washed over him head to toe and dissipates like a shockwave, passing right through. A crushing sweet unbearable scent so strong there's only emptiness behind it. No body can bear this much fear.

Derek takes off and runs to the epicenter of this explosion.

An abandoned building got pretty wonky, debris everywhere, grass smoldering, but no sign of the fire, like the oxygen has been pumped away. The flames haven’t gone out, they just vanished.

“Stiles!” yells Derek. “Stiles!”

Fragments of smell and sound slip through walls. Derek knows Stiles is inside.

He rushes to the door.

Invisible wall throws him back, smell of aconite rising around the house. Derek looks under his feet and sees what Stiles didn't – or if he did, he didn't pay attention – pieces of obsidian scattered here and there.  
A barely audible echo of a moan. Derek holds his breath, closes his eyes, tries to stop feeling anything around him.

He wades to the house as if through barbed wire; he could swear his brain is bleeding, animal fear tugging him back, but Derek reaches the door. His legs give out, he barely holds himself upright.

Stiles lays in the middle of the room, surrounded by the traces of a recent fire. Walls and the ceiling are black, ash falling in flakes, cooling wood creaking. The floor under Stiles is pristine, like his body protected it from the flames.

Stiles is seizing, nails scratching the skin of his neck. Tears are falling from his open eyes, saliva is mixing with blood and the stitches on his lip gave out completely.

“Stiles!” roars Derek, pulling him outside, physically dragging his body away, as far as he can. Derek feels his mind and his strength return with every step. “Damn it, Stiles!”

_He picks up the shards, sharp edges slicing his fingers open, someone is eating him alive, he feels every ripped sinew, it's unbearable, it doesn't kill, it makes you die every second over again. ___

____

Derek slaps Stiles, but it doesn't help.

____

“What's this? What happened to him?” Derek hears behind him.

____

The voice belongs to Isaac. He obviously ran – the shirt on his chest is wet with sweat, he's standing at a distance, not risking coming closer, he doesn’t understand.

____

“Water!” Derek yells, not looking back. “And look in his Jeep, the pills!”

____

“It's not from Adderall,” Isaac replies sluggishly. “Oh fuck, what's wrong with him?”

____

“Quickly!” Derek barks.

____

_Something is gnawing on his bones, tiny greedy teeth scraping his spine, he can't breathe – he doesn't need to, his lungs have been eaten, he can finally speak, he moans, putting the shards back into the frame. It's been going on for years. He will never finish._

____

“Mom,” calls Stiles barely audibly, choking, wheezing. “Mom, why is it so quiet.”

____

“Stiles, fuck, Stiles,” Derek holds his head, he has no idea what to do.

____

Returning Isaac has a bottle of Adderall and water in his hands. Derek feels the absurdity and uselessness of these things.

____

“It's not gonna help,” says Isaac. He'd never seen a human experience such pain. He thinks he knows how it feels, but he'd never seen it happen. Ever. “We aren't going to make it to the hospital. We aren't going to make it anywhere. We need something else.”

____

“What the hell is this?! What did he breathe in?!”

____

“He's going to die,” Isaac says suddenly and his pupils dilate. He'd just realized it's actually possible.

____

_The last shard falls into place. Cracks smooth out and disappear like circles on water. Mirror becomes dusty again. He screams again._

____

Derek feels Stiles' heart stop. A second passes. Two. The muscle contracts. Again.

____

He's alive.

____

First thing Stiles feels is someone helping him sit up, he tries to wipe his face with his sleeve, but that someone already pulls up the hem of his own sweatshirt and wipes away the blood, tears, spit and god knows what else. His vision is slowly coming back. A plastic bottle neck hits his teeth, he hungrily drinks, choking, he's been dying of thirst for decades.

____

Someone hugs him and he relaxes, pushes his hands against someone's chest, slides lower, puts his head on someone's lap. He's breathing with pleasure. He's dead tired. He's fading out from the need to sleep.

____

“Stiles,” someone is calling him like from the other end of a long hallway. “Stiles!”

____

"Tomorrow, mom,” he mutters. “I'll finish it tomorrow.”

____

Isaac helps Derek take his jacket off; he folds it and puts it under Stiles' head, freeing his legs.

____

Sloshing the rest of the water in a bottle, Isaac pours it onto Stiles' face and wipes it again with the same sweatshirt. Stiles isn’t wearing anything underneath.

____

“If I knew this moron would burn propane, I would've left him in the hospital,” says Derek and tries to stand, but Isaac grabs his arm.

____

“Wait,” Isaac immediately releases Derek. “What were you doing here?”

____

“Ask him. Were you following him or me?”

____

“Him.”

____

“I told all of you not to approach him. I don't repeat myself,” Derek says cuttingly. “I'll bring him back to a hospital.”

____

“Derek,” calls Isaac. “This is a bad idea.”

____

“I don't have a better one.”

____

“I do.”

____

Derek watches Isaac lift Stiles' hoodie up to his armpits and put a hand on his chest. Stiles wiggles in his sleep or blackout, trying to turn on his side, but Isaac firmly holds him down with another hand. Stiles' mouth is hanging slightly open, a broken tooth on the left side, a mark from Gerard's punch.

____

Derek looks into his face for a long time. Isaac stays quiet and waits.

____

“No,” says Derek.

____

“Turn him,” insists Isaac. “You see it yourself, he's sick. He almost died.”

____

“He's not sick, he's an idiot, it can't be healed with a bite. He stood three hundred feet from a blown up gas tank. If this hadn't killed him, nothing will. Go back, I'll take him to a hospital.”

____

“Derek,” something in Isaac's voice puts Derek on edge. A tiny lie. “He's a pain in the ass.”

____

“So are you,” Derek squints. “Just like most people I know.”

____

What Isaac does next staggers Derek. Isaac begs.

____

“Please.”

____

“Never,” settles Derek, “even if he survives, look at him. Another Omega. The only one he would follow is McCall, but not after how McCall dumped him.”

____

“You aren't turning him because you can't handle him?”

____

“I don't lend things to people that have no intention of returning them.”

____

“That's not what you told me.”

____

“You weren't listening anyway. You didn't care. You wanted for everything to be over and you got your wish.”

____

Isaac chuckles quietly. He imagined McCall Stiles would become a Beta for. That ship would sink the next day of the voyage, because the captain would be hiding from his second in command in the hold, with plugs in his ears and a bottle of rum.

____

Isaac distractedly studies Stiles' relaxed mouth, sliding a hand down his stomach and leans down before Derek has a chance to stop him.

____

“OH MY GOD!” shrieks Stiles, instantly coming to. “WHAT THE SHIT?!”

____

Derek is scary to look at, he looks so livid he's on the verge of losing his human form. Stiles grabs his side and screams at Isaac:

____

“You bit me! YOU JUST FUCKING BIT ME, YOU MUTT! Are you fucking insane?”

____

“If I were an Alpha,” Isaac licks his lips, “you'd be thanking me right now.”

____

Stiles lunges at Isaac with newfound strength and bangs his head on the ground. Isaac doesn't resist, he's intoxicated by the smell of his panic. Stiles' exhausted heart shifts into fourth gear again.

____

“If you were an Alpha, I would– oh fuck–” Stiles starts but falls to the side and desperately throws up.

____

“You'd barf all over him,” finishes Derek, quickly calming. “Impressive.”

____

“I'm so tired of all this puking. When will it end,” Stiles sighs, drained, looking at the remnants of something eaten a millennia years ago in the grass. “What's this made out of, I definitely didn't eat it. Fuck, I think it's still alive. I need to sleep. I'm thirsty. Need to brush my teeth. Where's my phone? Did anyone take my second sandwich?”

____

“Still think he's sick?” Derek asks.

____

“And you still think he's not?” Isaac answers.

____

*

____

The Camaro stops by a Starbucks, Derek buys two coffees to go, a boxed chicken lunch and two apple muffins.

____

“Have a sweet tooth?” asks Stiles.

____

“This is for you,” Derek looks at the road, turning the car around.

____

“Nah,” Stiles throws the muffins on the backseat. “More chicken would’ve been better.”

____

He's clutching at his side, sipping coffee. He's rubbing at the deep scratches on his neck, eating the lettuce the chicken breast is wrapped in. He's licking up the blood from a non-healing lip, munching on a cucumber.

____

“Eating is so awesome,” honestly admits Stiles, collecting crumbs from the box with his finger.

____

“Are you okay?”

____

“Kinda feels like I got dragged under a bus. And then Isaac. As if it wasn’t enough for me before him.”

____

“He'll get what he deserves,” Derek gently stops the car by the graveyard gates. _He's an amazing fucking driver, to match his car,_ Stiles thinks but out loud says:

____

“Don't hit him. I wouldn't. If he gets beaten up because of me, he'll start hating me even more. Why did we stop?”

____

Instead of an answer, Derek lifts his coffee cup.

____

Stiles opens the car door and sits with his back to Derek, sticking both of his feet out. Derek rolls his window down.

____

“Fine, to hell with it, I'll eat them too,” concedes Stiles and reaches into the back seat for the muffins. His hoodie rides up, Derek can clearly see the bite. It feels like somebody has turned on the heat inside the car.

____

“You want it?” Stiles offers one muffin to Derek, who just sips his coffee and says nothing. Stiles turns his back again and, judging by the sounds, eats the muffins along with the packaging.

____

Finished, Stiles sighs and looks at the silhouette of a baptist church carved into an evening sky. Chilled by the rain, fall air fills the Chevrolet, but Stiles doesn't feel cold and doesn't move.

____

“How did you put out the fire?” asks Derek.

____

“Do you know anything about Lloyd Argent?” says Stiles without looking.

____

“No.”

____

“In 1980, a dude starved six people to death. Don't know what happened to him now. Died, probably, he was sixty then.”

____

“How is this connected to how you put out the fire?”

____

Stiles finally turns to look Derek in the eye.

____

“After the bodies were found, the house got demolished. It doesn't exist. I didn't put anything out, Derek. I think Lloyd was Gerard's father, or brother. If you dig up all the skeletons in the closet, Gerard will have to do something about it – for example, fuck off forever – but I don't have a shovel on me, and you don't have time to wait till I get it and find something, and, frankly, I don't give a fuck about the dead. Gerard will get to me faster, and it means to you, too. I don't think my pain threshold can compete with his fantasies. When he starts sawing my feet off, I will talk, you know that perfectly well. I only hope you have a very good reason not to kill me, because on the other hand, you have a shit ton of temptations to do the opposite and here even I understand you, and that's fucked up.”

____

Derek doesn't look away, doesn't interrupt. He's listening, but at the same time, Stiles thinks there's something wrong with him. A strange fleeting feeling.

____

“I just want,” finishes Stiles, “for Gerard to shit himself so badly no lawyer in the land would be able to help him. He’d messed with my father, he'll get his comeuppance, definitely. I know you've already deduced what I want to do, and I also know you're sure it won't work. Listen to me carefully: if I can't set him up, I'll fucking light the second tank up when Gerard and I will sit down for a cup of tea.”

____

“You'd do it?” hoarsely, as if from a long silence, asks Derek.

____

“Look at me. I have nowhere to go because my father thinks I smuggle drugs across the Mexican border and all and sundry are kicking the hell out of me for it. I can't tell anyone the truth – I'll just end up in some nuthouse. I just don't have an explanation for him. Principal Dick is waiting for me at school, he is just about to open a case on my dad because I don't suck Principal Dick's dick and don't tell him which classmates to shoot next full moon. Technically, I don't even have a place to live – can't fit a bed inside the Jeep. I'm even out of fucking gas. Every second I'm waiting for you to figure out your ethical dilemma, or whatever's stopping you from killing me. That keeps me awake at night. I don't even have anyone to talk to, because Scott– Yes, I'd do it. I'm a teenager. I'm a maximalist. I have issues. And going back to your question: I didn’t put anything out.”

____

“So the fire was something unnatural?” Derek turns away, but this simple movement seems to require insurmountable effort.

____

“Asked the werewolf.”

____

Derek doesn't answer, and when Stiles decides that was enough talking for today, he suddenly remembers:

____

“What happened to you in that house?”

____

“Panic attack.”

____

“Lie to somebody else. What happened?”

____

“I don't know.”

____

“You almost died.”

____

“I think,” Stiles says slowly, leaning back in his seat and staring through the windshield on the road straight ahead, “I think you don't want to know anything about it.”

____

_I'm ready to piss myself at the very thought of having to go back,_ Stiles admits to himself. He can still feel with his whole body how someone's teeth gnawed at him, ripping his veins.

____

“I want to ask you something,” he says instead.

____

Derek opens his door. He's running hot, for some reason, getting hotter every minute, sweat beading on his palms and behind his ears.

____

“Sure,” he agrees snappily.

____

“Was Peter the first person you killed?” Stiles sounds distant. In that moment he goes to some dark terrifying corner of his mind where Gerard and him burn in the propane fire. Stiles thinks it's been the only choice from the very beginning, and everything could've ended much more quickly if he recognized it faster.

____

“I think,” Derek finally responds through gritted teeth, “you really don't want to know anything about it.”

____

Stiles closes his eyes and sighs heavily. He thinks about death and fears it so desperately all of his troubles seem insignificant. He can't calm down.

____

Garbled growling sound distracts him.

____

“Derek?” Stiles asks.

____

Derek sits hunched over, tightly clutching the steering wheel, resting his forehead on it.

____

“Oh shit,” Stiles drawls, defeated, and looks out from the car, already knowing what's happening. A pale imprint of the moon is emerging in the sky, round and gray like a nickel.

____

“These fucking full moons are every Friday now or what?!”

____

“Stop it,” growls Derek.

____

“What? Okay, I'm shutting up.”

____

“Stop being afraid.”

____

“Okay. Noted. Just give me five minutes, I'll find the off switch,” Stiles tries to joke, his face not betraying his rising fear, but Derek feels the adrenaline diluting his blood. He's woozy, the smell distracts him.

____

Derek is looking for the Pack, it's very close and it's calm – the night has only just begun. What's happening to Derek is happening to him only and the Pack has nothing to do with it, neither does the full moon.

____

The one sitting next to him is to blame.

____

“Derek, if you can't reign it in, no one can,” says Stiles.

____

The very next thing he does is fall out of the car and dash to the graveyard gates, trying to climb over them. Derek goes after him, catches his leg and yanks him down. Stiles gets up, but Derek grabs the bars on the either side of his shoulders. He's breathing hard, fangs make talking difficult.

____

“I shouldn't have, about Peter, huh?” whispers Stiles, looking Derek in the eye. Stiles is trembling, but his voice is almost even.

____

“You...” barely moving his tongue, Derek squeezes out, “aren't...helping.”

____

“Hold on, man. Now, I had notes somewhere about yoga and breathing. Too fucking bad I'm not in a reading mood.”

____

“Stiles!” Derek is holding on in a last ditch effort. Something is pulling him, tugging. He hikes up Stiles' sweatshirt, revealing the bite.

____

“Oh God,” Stiles goes cold as a corpse. Derek's open jaw is against the imprint, fangs pressing wetly onto the mark left by Isaac.

____

“Derek, I can't,” Stiles keeps his hands in the air, they are twitching frantically. “I'm done. I'm afraid. Derek, let me do something. Derek, what do I have to do.”

____

Derek’s mind blanks out, fangs press harder into the skin.

____

“No, no, no,” pleads Stiles, “Derek, fuck, what do you want. Tell me, I'll do it. I'll do anything.”

____

“You're making it worse,” Derek growls incomprehensibly, about to lose tethers completely.

____

He acutely realizes that for the first time since he learned to control his transformation, his body does not belong to him. The world swims before his eyes. He's an observer.

____

“I am your meat.”

____

He snaps. The grate Derek is holding on to bends under his fingers. His insides are on fire because he stopped breathing.

____

“I'm your meat,” Stiles repeats trying to talk evenly, but words still come out torn and ragged. The sound of his voice is making them terrifying, monstrous. “Isaac can no longer eat me.”

____

“Stiles!”

____

“I'm your meat, Derek. Only yours. You can eat me if you want to. Isaac gets nothing.”

____

Derek makes himself get up in a superhuman effort.

____

“That was fucked up,” he says, close to Stiles' face. Stiles smells Starbucks americano.

____

“Continue in the same vein?”

____

“No,” Derek twitches with a spasm like he's been electrocuted. “Fuck no.”

____

“Water? Shit, where would I get it–”

____

“Stiles...” Derek rasps, his mouth – against Stiles', his fang pushing into the torn stitch on the lip, he tastes Stiles' blood on his tongue. “Turn...your...fucking...head...”

____

He needs to get rid of his taste, needs to stop feeling his breath in his throat.

____

“There's no space, take your hands off,” Stiles softly replies. When he talks the movement of his lips graze Derek's, Stiles is still locked inside the circle of his arms, clutching at the gate.

____

Carefully, demonstratively open Stiles reaches for his wrist and tries to pry his fingers off. In response Derek leans in even further and growls.

____

“Got it,” soundlessly says Stiles, trying not to annoy Derek with his voice at least. He whispers on the verge of hearing:

____

“There's a ton of cops around. They're looking for me. Calm down or we're in trouble.”

____

_Have you ever wondered what you smell like?_

____

“Derek, I will take your hand now–”

____

_How much salt is in your sweat?_

____

“–okay, okay, I got it, chill–”

____

_How much iron is in your blood?_

____

“Fine. I don't care anymore, I'll do it.”

____

The heat and the madness recede suddenly. Derek tries to catch his breath, to blink the fog away, to understand what had just happened.

____

Stiles is hugging him, arms draped over his shoulders, one palm clutching the hair on his nape.

____

He licks a strip up the hot skin, just below the ear, and then his teeth clamp down on Derek's neck with the full force of his jaw.

____

“Fuck!” Derek flings Stiles away and this time Stiles doesn't try to get up.

____

“So?” Stiles wipes away the sweat on his forehead. “You okay?”

____

Derek gingerly touches his neck, looks at the blood on his fingers. Dusting off, Stiles barely reaches the car. He sways from side to side.

____

Derek rubs his face with his hands. The remaining tendrils of the heat seem to be going away, he still feels drunk but completely in control.

____

Stiles takes the back seat.

____

“I think I need a change of pants. Take me to Scott.”

____

“I don't know where he is.”

____

“Lahey's house basement.” Stiles stretches over the seat as to not catch Derek's eyes in the rear view mirror.

____

“What the hell?” Derek touches his neck again. The wound is healing surprisingly slowly. “Did he tell you that?”

____

“I'm sure of it. He suffers from a critical lack of imagination.”

____

“So Gerard has found him already.”

____

“Isaac's old man didn't skimp on soundproofing. Even if Scott decided to howl Bohemian Rhapsody, no one would hear him. For some unknown to me reason, Gerard thinks Scott is clever. Sitting in the Lahey house during a full moon is as far from being clever as I am from Eva Green's bed.”

____

“If you decided to give yourself away, then you can walk,” Derek throws. Weirdly, he remembers the tongue much more clearly than the subsequent bite.

____

“Tonight,” Stiles insists without changing the pose and trying not to raise his voice, “if you can't cope, then he won't for sure.”

____

“I snapped because of you. You were afraid. During a full moon it's like serving yourself up on a platter.” Sounds plausible, Derek would’ve believed it himself.

____

“Which is unsurprising in my situation,” calmly retorts Stiles. “So will you give me a ride or not?”

____

“What will you do to him?”

____

“Punch him in the face a couple of times. He'll get over it.”

____

“McCall dumped you,” says Derek starting the engine, “because he was sure it would keep you safe.”

____

“I figured. Not right away, but I'm not exactly dumb.”

____

“Try to keep him from doing something stupid.”

____

“Deal,” Stiles pulls the hood on. “Let's meet on the lacrosse field at noon.”

____

Derek doesn't respond.

____

_I'm your meat._

____

*

____

The lights of the houses are few and far between, flashing outside the car window, like incandescent islands amongst the fog silently spreading across the streets. Lone trees on the side of the road seem shapeless, liquid.

____

Derek stops the Camaro near a gravel-covered driveway.

____

“I need to go back,” he says. “I'm not going to wait for you. If he eats you, I can't help.”

____

“Thanks for the lift,” replies Stiles.

____

Derek feels his fingers grab the back of the driver's seat.

____

“Wanted to tell you,” Stiles' breath is close to Derek's ear. “Hiding the pack in a church – that's cute.”

____

Derek wants to turn his head and ask how in the fuck did he guess that, but Stiles quickly adds: “You're going to burn in hell anyway, so you're not losing much”, and then slaps Derek on the shoulder.

____

“Hey,” Derek calls when Stiles is already pulling up on his arms to get inside the broken kitchen window. Stiles looks back and presses a finger to his lips.

____

The last thing Derek sees is Stiles sitting on the windowsill and clutching at his side like he’s catching his breath after a sprint.

____

“Stiles, you're a fucking menace,” Derek softly tells himself, turning the steering wheel. The car smoothly takes off and dives into the fog, headlights leaving glowing red threads behind.

____


	7. Chapter 7

The commotion in the basement is heard only from inside the house. Outside, there's a deadly midnight silence, with only dogs barking somewhere far away. Ice cold air, stuffy and stale, sticks to Stiles as soon as his feet touch the stairs and take the first step down. Smells of rot sway around him; the walls are wet with dew.

Someone hidden – Stiles hopes it's Scott and remembers everything Derek told him about fear and platters – is waiting in the shadows.

"Come on," Stiles whispers, "come get you ass whooping."

Something falls and loudly breaks.

"Getting brave now?” he yells abruptly. Stiles steps away from the stairs, but his eyes don't adjust to the darkness, he sees nothing, and he's afraid of nothing. His thoughts are ravaged by resentment and anger.

It seems like whoever’s quietly walking in circles, without coming any closer, and breathing roughly feels it too.

“Scott, you were the only one who could've helped me,” says Stiles. “Derek almost tore me apart half an hour ago, and I was thinking 'Scott won't come and get me out of this mess'.”

The circles are getting smaller. Stiles can smell the unbearable smell of dirty fur, hear the claws scraping the floor.

“Gerard is on my dad's ass, full-time. I thought 'if only Scott would offer to get me drunk, I would feel so much better'. And you know how hard it is to drag a fifty fucking gallon propane tank though the entire forest on my own?”

Stiles sees yellow eyes flash and fade. Dull growling echoes off the walls. Stiles is sure no word of his clings to this instinct-consumed brain, but can't stop.

“Do you know how I was shitting myself in the hospital, telling myself they can't kill me just like that? Just, take me out with one shot here,” Stiles pushes at his head with a fist. “Gerard is still hoping my dead carcass can put a damper on your evening. If you don't give a fuck, call and tell him that yourself.”

Hair on the nape of Stiles' neck stands on end. Somebody is standing behind him, breathing down his collar.

“Do you know how scary it is, to sit at home like in a jail cell, behind all these bars, when Isaac busts in through the window and you're fucking convinced you'll die?! Scott! Answer me! Talk to me!”

Stiles waits, but all he hears in response is how oxygen snakes its way inside someone's throat.

“You think I'm here to help you,” Stiles sums up with an effort. “Well, listen up: go fuck yourself, Scott McCall. I'm leaving.”

A howl like this no insulation can drown out; Stiles is sure the whole town has heard it. A moment later, he’s is laying on the floor face down.

He's waiting for a punch, pain, blood, but nothing's happening. Scott is just straddling his back, gripping the hood of his sweatshirt. Stiles hears an eerie animal growl assemble itself into clumsy words:

“You're. Not. Going. Anywhere.”

“Scott?” Stiles asks, trying to wiggle around.

“Stiles,” Scott isn't letting up.

“Scott?” repeats Stiles to be sure.

“Stiles,” Scott's voice is becoming more and more human.

“Rose?”

“Jack.”

Sticky basement floor dust clogs Stiles' nose. He sneezes. Closes his eyes. Relaxes.

“Well, finally, it worked,” he says.

“It's a talent,” a completely coherent response from Scott. “I shed a tear.”

“Look who's talking, the Knight of the Fuck Face. You left me. You fucking left me.”

Saying this, Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, because Scott grabs his ears. He doesn't feel claws or fur – Scott's fingers are warm, calluses on his palms. Scott leans into Stiles' neck and inhales deeply.

“Okay, dude, that's enough–” Stiles tries to move and Scott coves him with his body and slides his palms underneath to hug Stiles across the chest. “Scott, I'm serious!”

Scott only hugs him tighter.

“Look for tits under Allison's shirt, not mine,” Stiles doesn't try to pull free. “Scott, wanted to ask for a while.”

“Shoot,” Scott isn't moving either.

“Have you ever wanted to hump my leg? Was it you who pissed inside my sneakers last month? And also–”

“Stiles, for the love of God, shut up.”

“Missed me, Stinky?”

“You're welcome,” seemingly out of place says Scott. Stiles gives him what he wants.

“Thank you for getting me out of the warehouse. Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Then go home.”

“Not now.”

“Allison's waiting for you.”

“How do you–”

“Both of you are as predictable as decomposition. Think about it, it might be hard. If she's not sitting on your bed with a crossbow, I... I don't know. I agree to wear her underpants for a week.”

Scott rises to his feet and helps Stiles up.

“Scott,” quickly asks Stiles. “If, say, tomorrow something hypothetically happens to me, I want you to have my collection of... well, I don't collect anything. Burn my laptop. I accidentally downloaded ten gigs of gay porn, no idea how it happened. Don't want my dad to pretend he was just passing by at my funeral.”

“Not fucking funny,” barks Scott, squeezing his sleeve tighter. “You're staying at my place. We'll figure something out.”

“You betcha.”

*

By a strange coincidence, the chemistry class focuses on the processes of decay. Scott remembers Stiles' words, discreetly taking his phone out and reading a message from Allison.

Since Gerard has turned a school into a reality show, hanging cameras even in the showers, Scott and Allison have this one way of communication left. They are even trying not to look at each other. Ever.

“Lied I slept over at Lydia's. She confirmed.”

“Gerard?” types Scott.

“Don't think he bought it. Didn't say anything. Probably wants to use me against you till he finds Stiles.”

“Finally gone insane.”

Allison doesn't respond for a while. She needs time to type in a message everything she hasn't said at night, while Stiles was sleeping on the floor, and Scott and her laid facing each other, holding hands, kissing like it was the last time.

“He’s killed a lot of packs. They all had social security cards. Went to school somewhere. Worked. Paid taxes. He was never a suspect once. Doesn't even have parking tickets. He thinks he's invincible, and I'm starting to think so too.”

Someone yells “Hey!”. Scott doesn't pay attention. Allison squeezes her phone, hiding it under the table.

“He will get nothing.”

“I love you.”

“Hey!” now the guy sitting by the window yells for the whole class to hear. “Holy shit, would you look at that? It's Stiles!”

Mister Harris turns away from the board to ask him to shut up but the tables are already empty.

“What, did they really find him?”

“Somebody said he got killed!”

“Said who? I heard he got taken hostage, that's why the sheriff left.”

Stiles is standing smack dab in the middle of a lacrosse field, in perfect view from the window, hands in the pockets of another hoodie Scott gave him this morning, making Stiles promise this one will live to see another day. Stiles said “sure thing, dude” and reminded about his laptop. It still wasn't funny. Allison reads a question in Scott's eyes: “The fuck is he doing?”

When it begins to seem Stiles is just killing time, someone leisurely strolls out of the building and walks closer. Stiles doesn't move, just tugs the hood off. He's being asked something, he nods in response.

“It's Gerard,” whispers Scott, feeling his insides go cold. Allison becomes paler than the paper she’s writing on.

Mr. Harris slaps the table and raises his voice:

“Back to your seats.”

Class reluctantly sits down. Allison and Scott remain standing.

“Problem, McCall?”

“I have to leave.”

“In half an hour,” says Harris. “Not earlier.”

“My stomach hurts,” Scott doesn't even try to lie believably. He's still looking out the window.

“You can wait.”

“I'm gonna shit myself.”

“McCall, if you leave the room, you won't pass the chemistry final, even if you really prepare for it,” says Mr. Harris in such a tone as if he's talking about something insignificant.

Scott makes the move towards the door, and then stops. He remembers everything his mother told him – about the social services, moving to live with his father. He will be hundreds of miles away from Allison. Scott looks back at her helplessly.

“Half an hour,” she mouths. “I have a fast car.”

Scott returns to his seat. He can't seem to concentrate until he feels pain in his fingers. Looking at his hand, he sees a piece of pencil he just broke embedded inside his palm.

*

Gerard clips his seat belt in himself, Stiles tries to turn away, but still feels a sickly sweet smell of his aftershave. Door blockers click.

“You want the heat on?” asks Gerard. “It's quite cold today.”

Stiles stays quiet.

“Well,” Gerard says tenderly, putting his hands on the steering wheel. “No stun guns, I promise.”

“Names and the den. All that I know. I won't help you get Scott.”

“Let's do it like this: I guarantee your normal little life back when I get my bodies. At least one, to start with.”

“Take Derek with all of his asshole friends and read in the newspaper that I'm reported missing. I don't trust you. I don't need your guarantees, just let me disappear.”

“You're in the wrong school, Stiles, I'm sure you would have found a place among the gifted. When Derek is done, I'll personally give you a ride to the state line.”

Stiles sighs. Gerard is watching him with curiosity.

“Fine,” Stiles yields.

“Where are we going, helmsman?”

“You remember that place in the woods where you sliced me up?”

Gerard waits for the sentence to continue, slight annoyance reflected on his face. He thinks that before Stiles finally spits everything out, he'd have to kill half an hour, listening to his whining and complaints. All of them do this, no exceptions. They're trying to justify themselves, boost their value, appeal to his conscience. Gerard has heard enough of this shit for life, he has a very extensive experience.

But Stiles simply says:

“Go there.”

“Who are you trying to fool, Stiles?”

“Go there, Mr. Argent. I'm no less sick and tired of this than you. I have no plans to run. You already have me, you can't bend me over any further, I'm already on the floor.”

Gerard smiles against himself.

“You are that rare type of a young man who can express their thoughts very clearly, Stiles. If you were only able to establish correct priorities, you'd be absolutely priceless.”

Stiles rests his cheek on his fist and looks through the window at teenagers tottering around on a school parking lot. He looks indifferent. It finally convinces Gerard.

He turns the key in the ignition.

Gerard's not in any hurry. He's one of those cooks that don't mind spending a whole goddamn week on a dessert. That moment, when all the ingredients are already collected and dissected on cutting board, gives Gerard a special intimate pleasure.

His car stops in front of the glade where only black scraps of wood remind of the gasoline blazing here. Undergrowth has filled out with fresh grass. No prints left on the ground.

“Are you afraid to die?” Gerard asks suddenly.

“I am afraid to die, Mr. Argent,” Stiles replies, tugging the hood on, putting elbows on the front console and laying his head on his hands as if to take a nap. “I am very afraid of how you're going to kill me.”

“What are you doing?”

“I'm waiting for the others to arrive.”

“You're waiting for your friends?”

”Excuse me, Mr. Gerard, I just really want to sleep. You'll pull out your phone and ask your hunters to drive up here – you were going to do it before, but thought it would scare me off. You want to finish everything today. Mind if we sit in the car? Are they going to be here soon?”

“In about twenty minutes. Of course, sit. I don't mind.”

Gerard realizes that now, broken and obedient, Stiles isn't that annoying. Moreover, there's definitely something about him. When he doesn't forget to take his pills.

Cars with hunters indeed do come in a quarter of an hour. Stiles' eyes linger on their faces, most of them are familiar from the warehouse shootout and their shifts by the hospital. Chris is not among them. Stiles remembers Allison's words about poisoning rats in the basement.

One of the hunters grabs Stiles by the collar; he rolls his eyes. Gerard sees this and laughs.  
Stiles is pushed in the back.

The tracks left by his Jeep are clearly visible in the fallen leaves. Jeep itself is still there, abandoned between the mangled young trees, with a door open, wheels drowning in wet grass and a cool fall haze.

“So this is where you were holed up,” Gerard throws.

“No,” says Stiles. “I was holed up in the house, Derek let me. Not far from here.”

Gerard stares at him and suddenly stops.

“Sons of bitches,” he whispers, “clever sons of bitches. They made their stinking den in that house?”

“What's wrong with the house, Mr. Argent?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Gerard squints. “No. It can't be. You're still trying to fuck me over. Can't believe it. No werewolf would come close to that house, it stinks of aconite.”

“Just go and see for yourself.”

Gerard walks off to the side and gives a nod to hunters. One kick to the shins makes Stiles kneel. He hears a click of a bullet driven into the chamber. The barrel rests on his neck.

“Just go and see for yourself!” Stiles yells.

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Don't lie to me!”

“I can describe what it looks like inside! Four rooms! No furniture! A sink–”

“Shut up,” Gerard looks tense to the last muscle. “Have you seen them go inside? Have you seen Derek Hale go inside the house? Answer me, damn it, I'm asking you! Look at me!”

Stiles shudders because Gerard grabs his neck.

“I'm counting your heartbeats, Stiles. Have you seen Derek Hale go inside?”

“Not once.”

“What were they doing? What did he do?”

“They were running around all crazy, chewing on trees, oh my God, what else they could've done? Don't shoot. Please.”

Gerard calms down noticeably.

“Could be the truth. Clever sons of bitches,” he repeats. “How did he guess we would never look for him there? Come on, get up, Stiles. Come on. I really need to see this.”

This time patience betrays Gerard. As they come closer to the house, he walks faster and the last couple hundred feet Stiles and the hunters can barely keep up with him. He knows exactly where to go.

Even through the fear and crushing apathy, Stiles feels a sense of curiosity. After all, he never did find out how that newspaper story ended.

When they arrive, Stiles realizes how pathetic his attempts to imitate a raging pack would've looked if the explosion hadn't helped him. Grooves from the lawnmower are too neat, ripped-off bark looks unnatural, but Gerard doesn't give a damn. He is furious. The house itself produces a disastrous impression: covered with soot, the door hanging on one hinge, back wall is just about to fall down.

“Well, of course! They had no choice! They had to stay here and tried resisting to become stronger.”

Stiles is quiet. The best way to lie is to allow the person you hope to deceive to imagine everything themselves.

“Mercy, what have these animals turned the house into?” Gerard continues. “And where the hell are they now?”

“Full moon,” Stiles answers curtly.

Gerard nods absentmindedly.

“Yes, you're right. Naturally. The full moon would have killed them, had they stayed here. They'll be back. We'll wait.”

Turning to the hunters, Gerard orders: "Go into the house, they can't feel us if we're inside."

“They found an excellent refuge which will become an ideal trap,” Gerard says, leading Stiles before him. Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes again.

Once in the house, Stiles waits for a panic attack, but it doesn't happen. He doesn't feel anything at all. He thinks only of the lighter in his pocket.

The first thing Gerard says after inspecting the house is:

“Tie him up.”

Stiles doesn't understand straight away they are talking about him.

“No,” Stiles backs to the wall, looking at the window. There is a gun in his face, but people closing him in have no handcuffs or rope, just a roll of tape.

Stiles breathes deeply and punches the person closest to him in the face with all his might. When he falls, Stiles kicks him in his chest. He doesn't have time to do anything else – he's knocked to the floor after several hefty punches. Gerard is watching this with indifference. A propane tank attracts his attention.

“What is this doing here? Hey, let him talk. Stiles, what is this doing here?”

“Please, not behind the back.”

Gerard switches his attention back from the propane.

“What?”

“Arms! Just not behind my back!”

“What is it, Stiles?” Gerard smiles.

“I already have to pee,” Stiles is laying face down on the floor, knee of the hunter Stiles hit firmly pressing into his back. “Will you hold it for me?”

“Piss your pants.”

“Not a problem. If you're okay with it.”

Gerard thinks for a second. He then frowns and caves:

“Okay, it already stinks in here. Guys, do as he asks. And don't forget the feet.”

Tied up, Stiles clumsily tries to sit with his back against the wall. When he succeeds, Gerard sits opposite of him.

“Now the names.”

“What are you going to do with them? Shoot them right at school?”

“Stiles.”

“No, seriously,” Stiles whispers fiercely. “Why did you tie me up?”

Gerard does his trick again with the pulse counting, but it doesn't help this time: fear and anger make Stiles' veins burst with pressure.

“Names.”

“Mr. Finstock, Mr. Harris, and, regrettably,” Stiles spits the word in Gerard's face, “Mrs. Argent.”

Gerard waves his hand and one of the hunters lazily hits Stiles with a butt of a gun to back of the head.

“God, not the head again,” Stiles moans.

“Where's your Adderall? You seem distracted.”

“Lemay Omar,” Stiles says, not looking at Gerard, “Amanda Beck and Victor Calipe. Calipe recently transferred from Missouri. You need those three.”

“Huh. I never would have thought.”

“That's the point. What will you do to them, Mr. Argent?” Stiles insists.

“Is this your conscience asking? I will tell you. I think you'll see all of it, I'll shoot them right here. If even one of them escapes, I think they'll get into an accident. Slip in the shower.”

“From a bullet to the head?”

“More likely, cut in half. A very nasty fall.”

“Do you really believe in werewolves, Mr. Argent?” Stiles asks, unprompted.

Gerard suddenly grows suspicious.

“Do you really think that everything that happened is not a figment of your imagination? Me, all of these people, this house, Scott McCall, howling at the moon. You are a werewolf hunter. Imagine – you are sitting locked in the room now, pumped full of tranquilizers,” Stiles gets louder at the end, almost breaking into a scream. Gerard sees his hysteria. “Just imagining all this shit while the nurse changes your catheter.”

Gerard rises to his feet again and waves at someone. Stiles gets hit again.

“I help werewolves,” Stiles doesn't shut up, not paying attention to the thin streak of blood warming his neck. “Listen to how insane this sounds, listen to yourself! I, Stiles Stilinski, help the werewolves, so you snitch on my father and threaten me with murder.”

“You,” Gerard answers patiently, “Stiles Stilinski, help the werewolves. And if you, Stiles Stilinski, will not shut up right now, I will shoot you. Your father will be next. So shut your fucking mouth.”

“Let me go,” whines Stiles. “I did everything you wanted. I brought you into the den of werewolves, I gave you the names. Why wouldn't you let me go?”

A rotten feeling grips Gerard. Stiles' behavior is very odd. Gerard has seen him in deeper shit and he never lost it like this. 'Something’s weird', Gerard tells himself, but one of the hunters butts in on his thoughts.

“We've done the little pissant in. He's a dead duck, Gerard, let him go. Fuck him.”

Gerard looks Stiles right in the face.

“If Derek and the pack don't arrive here before midnight, I'll kill you, Stiles.”

This seems to sober Stiles up, he goes so pale the moles on his face look black.

“And if they were stuck in traffic, Mr. Gerard, could you sleep peacefully, knowing you’ve killed an innocent?”

Gerard leans into his ear and whispers:

“Never stopped me before.”

Dull passive waiting stretches well into the night. The hunters with nothing better to do check their weapons and count ammo, trying to find the best angle for shooting out of the windows for the thousandth time. Occasionally cigarette stench reaches him from the other rooms, even though Gerard categorically prohibited smoking.

Stiles is taken outside to piss a couple of times, but isn't allowed to take even two steps away from the house. His despair turns to hopelessness. There's a huge hole in his chest his soul fell out of and is left lying under his feet.

He's done everything he wanted to. His plan did work, although partially. Stiles doesn't know how to get out of here alive – he had hoped Gerard would let him go after getting what he wanted.

Stiles can't think of any other ways of salvation. There aren't any.

*

Shadows on the floor are getting longer. When the approaching night blurs out them completely, Stiles says:

“Can I go to sleep?”

Gerard gives him a long careful look.

“Of course.”

“You know what I mean.”

Gerard doesn't grace him with a reply.

“Don't bother waking me up when you–” Stiles realizes he can't even say the word out loud.

“There's still two hours before midnight left.”

“They won't come. It's not their den. You've known this for a while. I don't understand why you're still waiting. Don't wake me up. Please.”

Gerard looks at the tree branches outside the window, gesticulating pointlessly. Wind rips the clouds in the sky apart. No moon, but stars are bright enough to illuminate them.

“They will come,” Gerard says. “Maybe not all of them. Maybe only McCall. I remember my promise, one body – and I'll take you to the state line myself.”

“Scott doesn't know anything about this place. Let's just get this over with.”

Gerard falls silent again. Hunters who heard their conversation turn away.

“Sleep, Stiles,” offers Gerard. “Sleep tight.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

He wakes up from an agonized wail and, for a moment, it seems the scream is his own, but there's a man next to him on the floor, writhing with a crossbow bolt in his shoulder.

The wind has cleared the sky, house is as light as it could ever get, like when the new moon August star showers shake the stars down to the earth.

Muzzle flashes illuminate hunter silhouettes.

Stiles gets up, falls down, gets up again and reaches the tank in short hops, ripping off the valve, searches for a lighter in his pocket. A smell of gas hits his nose.

“Stop! Do not move!!” Gerard shouts. Stiles freezes with a lighter in his bound hands. Gerard aims a pistol at him. “One move and I'll shoot.”

A terrible gurgling wheeze comes in from one of the back rooms.

“McCall!” yells Gerard. “Come here! Or I'll tear his head off! You came for him, didn't you?!”

A staggering figure rises in the doorway. Stiles chokes on his breath, because it's not Scott.  
It's Derek.

“A werewolf in this house,” Gerard says, not believing his own words. “I don’t envy you right now.”

The shooting continues in the adjacent rooms. Someone is distracting the hunters and she – or they – are damn good at it.

Stiles waits for Gerard to put the gun away, but it never happens – Gerard still has Stiles in his sights, even though Derek is right here, mere steps away. Stiles believes the explosion won't kill him, frankly, he doesn't care what will happen to him. He just wants to fucking finish this. He died yesterday, when he went to sleep.

Derek's breathing is labored and fitful, he passes Gerard by and falls to the floor, five feet from Stiles. His hands are covered in blood.

“Hey, hey!” Stiles kneels and shakes Derek's shoulder before understanding what he's doing and that Gerard still hasn't fired. Using up the last of his energy, Derek raises a hand and tears a claw through the tape, scratching the skin on Stiles' wrists.

After that Derek falls quiet and no longer moves, only his muscles contract convulsively from time to time.

“What a day I'm having,” grabbing Derek under the arms, Stiles tries to pick him up. “What a fucking night! Everything went sideways, everything! Derek, where are you hit?”

“He doesn't have to be injured to die here,” says Gerard. He looks calm, even interested.

Stiles is not listening, palming over Derek's body, looking for the wound, still hoping to put him back on his feet. Still hoping for a lighter to work and someone to stay alive to talk about what happened here.

“My father killed these beasts here. Dozens of them. We didn't even have to hide the bullet holes, he just locked them here and they died. Every single one,” Gerard continues. “Every single goddamn one.”

“I knew it already,” interrupts Stiles. “You got busted when the bodies were found before you could, I don't know, throw them in the river or bury them in the foundation or whatever you were doing with the corpses.”

“Stiles,” something a lot like admiration flickers in Gerard's voice. “Terrific.”

Stiles has given up on trying to bring Derek to his senses, he just sits with his arms around his chest, pulling him close like trying to shield himself from bullets. Like trying to protect Derek from bullets – Stiles' fingers are spread wide, palms covering the heart. Gerard is going to say something else, but stops.

“What's this?” he squeezes out.

Stiles can't see what he sees and doesn't pay attention to what Gerard noticed. Derek's eyes are open. His breathing is even. He looks at Gerard. He seems to be getting stronger, but how? Why won't he die?

Gerard's face lights up with understanding. The sort of understanding when you come to believe the unbelievable because there is no other explanation.

“It can't be,” says Gerard and suddenly laughs. “You? This moron? You, the Alpha of a fucking pack, smart and cunning Derek Hale? You – this idiot with a caved in head?”

“What?” Stiles doesn't understand. “What's going on?”

Gerard laughs so hard the gun shakes in his hand.

“That's– Hell! I'd leave both of you alive just to watch! It would be the funniest story I've ever told. And I will tell, trust me, no one would believe me. No one. I didn't believe my father when he said that some girl raised Brendan Tulloch from the dead, so we had to kill him again, only this time along with the girl too, just to be sure.”

“What the hell is going on?!” Stiles blows up, squeezing the fabric of Derek's t-shirt in his fists. “You got a bit too talkative, Mr. Argent.”

“You know Tulloch, don't you?” Gerard continues, ignoring Stiles. “Yeah, you know him, I'm sure. Legend had it that fucker was invulnerable. He was force-fed aconite, but still pulled through. Until we found that girl, we couldn't understand what was going on. But I thought it was all just stories. Fairy tales.”

“Shoot me already or what!” Stiles yelps, irritated.

“You don't understand?” now Gerard looks Stiles in the face. “He didn't tell you? Well, of course. My God, Derek Hale. Look at you. You could've had any woman, but you went and got yourself in trouble. Stiles, I thought Hale needed you because you're the sheriff's son, because you can be useful sometimes. He didn't turn you. He would never turn you, and now I know why. Only a human can protect a werewolf from all this, you see, even pull them back from the brink of death. I thought only Tulloch was so lucky, found his... whatever you call it? Hell, Derek, you're so screwed, he's a fucking guy! Oh, this is rich.”

Gerard tries to add something, but stifles a laugh.

“And this is the shit I have to listen to before I die,” Stiles murmurs with malice. He feels like Gerard is talking in some foreign language – he recognizes the words separately, but together they make no sense.

Then Derek moves. Presses his hand into the floor. Gets up. He’s standing firmly on his feet.

Stiles feels stupid continuing to hide behind him, holding onto his shirt, but Gerard's rant has suddenly awakened a hope inside him. If the old man has gone insane, Stiles can still try and get out of this, if not well than at least alive.

Gas keeps escaping the tank with a soft whistle. It can't fill the room – all door and windows are open, but the it should have enough left to blow up if Gerard starts shooting after all.

“Derek, have you brought with Lemay, Amanda and Victor with you?” cheerfully asks Gerard. “Are they here too?”

“Who?” Derek asks in a strained voice. “Who are they?”

“Don't, Derek, I know everything. Lemay, Victor and Amanda – are they here? Is it them running around or will I have to catch them one by one after you're finished?”

Derek doesn't respond and apparently looks at Gerard like he's an idiot because he stops smiling and grimly shifts his gaze to Stiles peering over Derek's shoulder.

“Do you have a pack, Derek?” already knowing the answer, asks Gerard.

“Yes.”

“And there is no one called Amanda there?”

“I don't know Lemay or Victor either.”

“Stiles,” sighs Gerard. “You little shit.”

Stiles blinks, opens his mouth, closes his mouth, blinks again, reaches out to the tank and snaps the lighter.

“NO!” Gerard and Derek shout at the same time.

Nothing happens, the flames are too far from the gas. Derek knocks the lighter from Stiles' hand, Gerard shoots but misses – a crossbow bolt is sticking out of his forearm. Awesome, Stiles thinks, Allison is fucking awesome.

Derek lunges at Gerard, but strangely, as soon as he moves away from Stiles, he twists in pain again, he howls, his movements get sloppy and Gerard, even with an arrow in his arm, evades him with ease and fires again.

Miss.  
A shot.  
Miss.

Stiles, whose feet are still bound with tape, jumps into a corner, crashes down on the ground and crawls. Derek knocks the gun out of Gerard's palm, he responds with a blow to the jaw. Derek tackles Gerard to the floor, but he's obviously too weak to fight back. Gerard reaches for the gun, scrambles up onto his knees and puts a gun to Derek's head.

“Catch!” Stiles yells as loud as he can and throws something at Gerard. The body works quicker than the brain and Gerard unthinkingly tries to catch the mirror.

Realizing what he caught exactly, Gerard irritatedly tosses it aside.  
It breaks.

*

Shooting stops as abruptly as it had begun. The house is filled with Gerard's screams. Hunters don't care about werewolves when their own scream like this.

“Of course,” Stiles mutters under his breath, barely able to move. “Let's kill all the werewolves, sure. Then kill all the Jews. Autopsy all the aliens. Burn all the Justin Bieber albums. Give all the opium to the Chinese, we're colonists, after all. Of course. Oh my God. Oh my God. I'm fucking alive. I'm alive. Oh my God. Amazing.”

“Shut up,” groans Derek who Stiles is dragging by the legs, making his nape catch on all roots protruding from the ground.

“Fuck, living is so awesome,” Stiles ignores him. “A bird, oh God. A fucking squirrel. Grass. No, leaves. Shit, a stone, I'm sorry, Derek, watch your head. Fucking awesome.”

An eerie inhuman howl is heard from inside the house, stopping so suddenly they shudder. Stiles thinks he sees a shapeless hungry shadow – black spots of nothing – moving in the windows.

“Wait, Stiles,” Derek asks.

“No, soon, a little bit more.”

“Stiles.”

"You know what, I should rest a bit. Right. Sure. I'm not tired. We can't stop. God, where is the road. I don't remember. Oh God, I'm alive.”

“Stiles, wait. Calm down.”

“Where is Allison? Where's Scott? Scott's there, right? Where's my Jeep? What time is it? Have to get some water. You want water?”

“Scott's fine, I feel him somewhere nearby. Stop. Allison has water.”

“Yes, you're right, we have to wait for them,” Stiles falls next to Derek. “Fuck, it worked.”

“That was your unnatural stuff?” Derek asks and Stiles hears him smile a little. Stiles grins too and repeats something said once what feels like years ago:

“Asked the werewolf.”

“How's your recorder doing?”

Stiles pulls up his hoodie. Duck tape cracks.

“They'd have to be blind not to find it on you,” says Derek.

“They didn't search me. Planned to kill me anyway,” replies Stiles and presses the button.

Gerard Argent's voice, a voice of a respected man and a school principal, is heard, muted but perfectly recognizable, from the speaker.

"You, Stiles Stilinski, help the werewolves. And the if you, Stiles Stilinski, don't shut up right now, I will shoot you. Your father will be next. So shut your fucking mouth."

Derek exchanges a look with Stiles.

“Can't submit it into evidence, maybe, but my dad will be interested,” says Stiles, carefully hiding recorder in his pocket.

“Stiles, it was...” Derek is looking for a word. “Not bad. Everything you pulled off.”

“It was cool, Derek, very cool. Almost as cool as you saving my damn life.”

“It was cool?”

“Awesome.”

“How cool?”

“I'm speechless.”

Derek is about to sit up, but something falls heavily on top of him. Stiles thinks it's big bird and shudders. Hot and slippery thing splashes on his face.

Blood and bits of flesh fly in all directions. Someone is ripping Derek's chest and stomach apart; it happens in silence, in a fraction of a second. Derek doesn't scream, his mouth is wide open, but there's no air in his lungs, there's little lungs left and his throat can't produce a sound.

Just a terrible, sticky, slippery slaps of torn meat. Stiles hears Scott's and Allison's screams on the edges of his consciousness. An arrow, two, three, all exactly in the heart of an attacker. A fourth one finally knocks him to the ground, he falls to the side, but then rolls back and pounced on Scott. Scott hasn't been in the damn house, he's full of energy. He easily overpowers the killer and brings the hand up to rip his throat out, but suddenly stops.

“Isaac?” he says quietly, and then repeats, almost shouting: “Isaac?!”

Stiles leans over Derek.

“Fuck, man,” he whispers, because there's not a drop of saliva in the mouth, his tongue completely motionless. “Derek?”

“I'm the Alpha now,” Isaac says, somber. Scott pulls away from him, looks for Allison.

“Derek?” Stiles' hands tremble, he doesn't know what to do. Derek's insides are a mess. Whites of the eyes rolled back shining. “Oh my God, I need to stop the blood... Yes, I have to stop it...”

“No more collars,” Isaac spits the words out slowly, one by one, pulling the arrows out of his body. “No more basement. No more jumping through the fucking hoops! No more broken arms. You hear that, Derek? No! More! Broken! Arms!”

Stiles starts pulling a hoodie off himself.

"Have to close it", he murmurs. "Close it all." He doesn't notice Isaac behind him.

“Stiles!” Scott yells and Allison shoots.

Isaac catches an arrow with one hand without looking. With a second hand he grabs Stiles by the collar and pulls.

“Quick, you're coming with me.”

Scott pushes his foot into Isaac's back, he reels and turns, Stiles landing hard on top of Derek.

“He's not going anywhere,” Scott warns and hits again.

Strangely, Isaac misses this blow, too.

“You suck for an Alpha,” teases Scott. Isaac has no choice but to fight, leaving Stiles alone.

Stiles lays on Derek, numb with horror. The fabric of his sweatshirt gets heavier, instantly soaking up the blood, he feels the moisture with his stomach and the heat of a huge open wound underneath. Trying to pull himself off on his arms, he fails because they tremble so badly he only makes everything worse - now the shards of Derek's broken ribs are digging sharply into his own chest. Stile resorts to just laying there, breathing into Derek's face, resting his hands on either side of his head.

Allison’s shouting something, she's out of arrows, Scott and Isaac are like two feral dogs; their dustup wrecks the trees, turns the earth inside out.

“Come on, dude,” Stiles whispers, and, turning away from the scary lifeless white of his eyes, puts his cheek on Derek's shoulder. “Come on, man, do it. It would be so cool if you did.”

Surprisingly, Scott wins. He twists Isaac's arms behind his back. They are both pretty banged up, and Allison hits Isaac in the head with a rock. Catching her breath, she wheezes:

“Stiles.”

He doesn't respond. He fell asleep in a pool of blood, covering someone's torn up body.

Stiles really wanted to sleep, more and more with every passing second. He thinks – no, he feels - his conscience getting hazy, something is roughly and imperiously siphoning the last of his strength, like the juice from an orange. A little more, and he wouldn't be able to breathe. Allison calls him again. He blacks out.

*

 

*

“Allison!” Scott shouts. Stiles feels like there are clumps of cotton stuffed into his ears. “Allison, Isaac's not an Alpha! Look at him! Allison!”

Through the darkness and dizziness, Stiles pushes to the surface, sensations returning to him reluctantly. He almost drowned, but in the mass of icy water his feet finally touched the bottom, he pushed off and swam up. He was unconscious for what feels like an eternity.

Stiles doesn't understand, he can't compute that the pulse he feels resonates with his own heart. Someone gently lifts him and Stiles falls to the side like a bag of sand.

“Awesome,” Stiles manages to say. “High five.”

Without answering, Derek stands up and straightens to his full height.

“Well,” as if nothing had happened, says Isaac, “there's always next time.”

“Isaac,” Scott lets go of him and walks away, “I think you're fucked.”

Derek slowly, without haste, closes in on Isaac, who doesn't even look scared. He is doomed and well aware of that fact.

Something stops Derek. He looks down at his feet and sees Stiles clinging to his leg.

“That's it,” he breathes out. “I'm done. Stop.”

Derek takes a few steps – each becoming progressively slower – and does stop, because Stiles is dragging behind him on the ground.

“Great,” Isaac crosses his arms over his chest. “Now you do what he says. Stiles, throw him a stick.”

Before Derek manages to say or do anything, Stiles takes a deep breath and yells:

“I'm done! For real! This one almost died, I nearly died, you almost died just now! Enough! I'm fucking sick of it! Can all of us just fucking survive this once?! I'm so goddamn sick and tired of all of you, if only you knew.”

Scott pokes himself in the chest with the thumbs of both hands.

“And you too! Sick of you!” adds Stiles. Allison sticks out her lower lip.

“Fine,” Stiles agrees, calming down. “You're okay.”

Isaac looks somewhere to the side and says softly:

“I'll just wait, Stiles. Everyone he was ever close to either died or became his enemy. I'll wait because it seems to me that killing you is a fucking hassle.”

Deafening bang and flames shooting up over the woods force all of them to jerk and freeze in place.

“Alright,” Stiles says dumbfounded. “How much gas was there left in that damn tank?”

“We should go,” Scott says. “People will call the fire department. I don't know what to tell them if they see us. Isaac, we'll take you. Someone will have to nail you to the wall at least until the morning.”

“As you wish,” without a hint of gratitude says Isaac and winks at Stiles, sliding the edge of his palm across his throat.

“Oh, fuck, my Jeep,” Stiles flips Isaac a bird.

“I'll give you a ride,” offers Derek.

“Fuck, my poor Jeep.”

“Come on,” calls Derek.

Stiles gets up, clinging onto Derek who throws his hand on his shoulder. Stiles struggles with staying upright. They're walking away from the light of the flame, the screams, the dying house and those left in it.

“That was fucking awesome. You were like a piece of beef. No, a cutlet. And then immediately a cow.”

“No kidding.”

“It was awesome. Awesome. Five minutes ago I held your guts in my hands. Fuck, my head is spinning. I saw your liver, Derek, it was pâté. Five fucking minutes ago. Why didn't Peter do it? Why did you do that?”

“Stiles. I got lucky.” 'You have no idea how lucky.'

Derek feels Stiles trying to walk on his own and lets him go. Stiles falls behind, but Derek doesn't offer his help, and Stiles doesn't ask for it.

“How did you find me?” asks Stiles.

“You told me to meet you at noon on the lacrosse field.”

“You weren't there.”

“You need to look around more often.”

“Why the hell did you break in at night?”

“It was too light out. Hunters relax at night.”

“And Scott?”

“We met here.”

“Derek,” Stiles says after a short silence, “is there something I don't know?”

“You may or may not be familiar with Fermat's theorem?”

“I'm not familiar with anything Gerard said.”

“Gerard was delirious.”

“Derek, why did you save me?”

“Because my nail lady fell sick, Stiles, I had a free evening. Don't play dumb. You understand everything perfectly well.”

“I want to know,” Stiles stops and Derek, feeling it, stops too. He listens without turning around. Stiles corrects himself:  
“No, I want you to know that I don't owe you anything. You don't owe me anything, either. Some things just happen. Milk goes sour. Brake pads wear out. If you're in trouble and I happen to be passing by, I'll get you out. No debts.”

“Same here, Stiles. Same here.”

“Although, you know, you'll owe me if I have to steal the keys at the precinct for you again.”

“Okay.”

“Come to think of it, generally you need me more than I need you.”

“Stiles, enough talking. Where do you only get the strength?”

“I’m the sheriff's son. I stole the keys for you. I did a lot of shit for you. I hope you remember it.”

Derek can't take it anymore.

“Stiles.”

“What?”

 _I need you. Because you're my meat, Stiles. And if anyone was ever to eat you, it would be me. Just me, Stiles. I'm already breaking the pieces off of you. I almost killed you just now, dying of hunger. You make me a coward, Stiles. I think I'm afraid you won't be around when I'm going to die again. I think I'll never let you get far ever again._ None of this Derek says out loud.

“If you're thirsty,” he says instead, “then move, there's definitely half a bottle or so left in the car.”

Stiles pauses, looking down at his feet. God, I'm still alive loops in his head and he doesn't want to pause it.

Derek slows down to walk next to Stiles. Their sleeves touch occasionally. Stiles doesn't notice when Derek takes his wrist and squeezes it, tightly, painfully, before releasing. At this point, Stiles thinks that finally, it was all over. No more bad days, terrible night are in the past.

*

Waking up after midnight, Mrs. Gruber slides her hand over the bedside table and realizes that once again she forgot to bring herself a glass of water the night before. It's difficult to get up, she fumbles for a long time with her bare feet in search of slippers. Not finding them, she goes to the kitchen barefoot.

Puts a mug under the stream of water from the tap and immediately drink, stopping in front of kitchen window.

She freezes, forgetting to swallow. Water pours down her chin on her nightgown.

She can see McIntosh Road from her window perfectly, in the dark quiet night it looks like a black river dotted with bright strips of road markings. Mrs. Gruber sees a man without skin. He is darker than the road, blacker than the night. He's fuming, Mrs. Gruber could swear she smells the burning flesh.  
The moon peeks out from the clearing in the clouds and Mrs. Gruber sees how in this gray light a terrible burnt man himself becomes lighter as well. Oh God, she thinks, he’s growing new skin.

The man stops and looks at Mrs. Gruber. She slowly waves at him. The man turns away and keeps walking. Strangely, he's somewhat similar to the school principal who asked her about the sheriff's missing son. Mrs. Gruber wipes her chest with a kitchen towel, rinses the glass and goes back to bed.

“Maybe I _should_ see a doctor,” she tells her cats.


End file.
